


The Lion of the North

by Atri



Series: The Songs of the North [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU after Robert's Rebellion, Butterflies, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 36,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1372063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atri/pseuds/Atri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Jaime Lannister is horrified by the deliberate murder of the royal family by order of his own father. Determined to not follow the path set out before him by Tywin Lannister and find his own, he breaks with his family - and finds an unexpected ally in one Ned Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jaime I

#  Jaime I 

“Is it true?” Jaime growled at his father, who simply continued to sip his wine, looking calmly at his offspring.

“Is what true? You have to be more specific.”

“Did you have Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys killed?”

After all the effort he had made to keep his charges safe from his father’s first murder attempt, his relief at the arriving Stark forces and Lord Eddard’s sense of honor, it was all for naught. They were dead. How foolish of him it had been to think that they would be safe now. And his father, the bastard, did not even make the attempt of looking guilty or remorseful.

“You mean: did I have the good sense to correct your mistake? Yes, I did - and you should be thankful for it. In return, King Robert will take your sister as his queen. You are dismissed from the Kingsguard and free to become my heir, as you should have been. Rejoice, boy, you are a hero and brother to a queen!”

His father looked extraordinarily pleased with himself and, for perhaps the very first time, Jaime felt disgust well up inside him. Tywin Lannister was a hard man; he had known that. But this was such a vile act that any good man should shudder in revulsion. Not his father.

“How could you?! Aegon was just a babe! The princess just a young girl!”

“Young they might have been, but a threat nevertheless. Best to squash the problem before it grows - remember that.”

“You disgust me.”

Tywin snorted disdainfully.

“You have yet much to learn about what it means to rule. As Lord Lannister, it is my duty to look out for what is best for our house. We have gained much in this war and lost little. Someday, you will have to make these decisions.”

And those last words stopped Jaime cold. For just a moment, he imagined himself ordering the deaths of innocent children and other vile acts. What would he be in ten years? An unfeeling monster just like his father? Jaime had killed Mad King Aerys to save lives. It might have gone against his oaths, but it had been the right, the honorable thing to do. Would he have any honor left as his father’s heir in ten, in twenty years?

_I don’t want to be like this_ , he thought and a decision solidified in his mind.

“No.”

“...no?” There was a dangerous undertone there.

“I won’t go to Casterly Rock. What you did was the vilest of murders.”

Jaime turned away, but stopped at the door, hand on the handle, as his father’s words reached him.

“I have forgiven you your mistake of saving the Targaryen children. It was the folly of youth. But if you leave now, know that I will not take you back. Casterly Rock shall be closed to you. I will consider you a Lannister no more.”

For a moment, Jaime hesitated, but then opened the door and left.

___________________________________________________________________

The furious argument that took place between King Robert and Lord Stark, newly returned with his sister’s bones, would be something for the legends. Servants and soldiers alike whispered of the confrontation, of how Lord Stark had accused his friend of breaking his oath to him about keeping the Targaryen children safe and King Robert’s reply. Some even said that swords had been drawn and that it was only the intervention of Lord Arryn that saved blood from being spilled.

But the aftermath of the deaths of the last Targaryens in King’s Landing certainly had a fallout, no matter what had truly happened. The Stark host was leaving King’s Landing and heading back North.

“And I offer you to come with us, Ser Jaime,” Lord Stark told him solemnly.

“So everyone in the Red Keep already knows about my falling out with my father? Gossip,” Jaime snorted, “spreads as quickly as a King Landing’s whore spreads her legs, it seems. I don’t need your pity, Lord Stark.”

“It is not pity, Ser. I know that you could not be woken for hours after their deaths.”

“An insurance by my father so that I would not make another youthful mistake.”

“No doubt. But had you been awake, you would have tried to save them. You saved them the first time and you saved King’s Landing.”

“Fat lot of good it did me.”

“You are an honorable man, Ser Jaime. Perhaps the only honorable Lannister there is. The North is much different to what you are used to, but it is not a viper’s pit like the South. We could use an honorable and good man such as you and you might find the North to your liking in return.”

“I will think about it, Lord Stark. Thank you.”

And think of it he did. For a whole night and not finding any sleep. The North. He had never thought about going north. But what was there for him here, in the South? He was no longer a Kingsguard and so there was no place for him in King’s Landing. Cersei was lost to him. Casterly Rock was equally lost to him. Tyrion would manage without him and perhaps even come north later on. Whatever had driven him to confront his father in that way, whether brilliance or madness, was done and over with. His father would not take him back; that he knew without doubt. But the North...he had liked Lord Stark and they had seemingly bonded somewhat in the short time they had together. He was a good man, an honorable man, and perhaps the only chance Jaime had of not losing himself, as he feared he would if he remained here.

Decision made, he joined the Northern army as it left King’s Landing, still in his golden armor but with a simple grey cloak, having left his white one behind. The Northmen welcomed him well enough, especially after they noticed that their lord was friendly towards him.

“Where’s your cloak, Heroic Lion?” the Greatjon Umber asked, his voice loud and boisterous.

“Left it behind in the city.”

“Heh! White’s not your color anyway. You are too pretty by far as it is,” the large man japed. “Why, I could mistake you for a woman!”

“Then you must be desperate for a woman’s touch. What, do the whores run away from you when faced with your ugliness?”

“Only when they see that I’m too much for them, Lion.”

The Greatjon then threw something in Jaime’s direction.

“Here! You are a Northman now, Lion. If you wear that flimsy thing, you’ll freeze to death and we wouldn’t want to deprive the North of your prettiness, now would we?”

It was a warm grey cloak lined with a strange reddish fur.

“It’s the fur of a mountain lion,” Lord Stark explained and his lips almost twitched up in an almost smile.

A mountain lion. The Lion of the North. 

It had a nice ring to it, Jaime decided and fastened the cloak around his shoulders.


	2. Chapter 2

#  Tywin I 

“You can go!” Tywin waved the servant away coldly and took another long drink from his cup, ignoring the scuttling that accompanied the servant’s exit. So his son, his young, foolish son had done it. The betrayal stung, it stung horribly. Jaime - tall, good-looking, beautiful Jaime. He, who should have been his heir, who should have continued the name of House Lannister, had chosen honor over family. Over blood.

And now he was reported to have gone north with the Stark host. An honorable fool in the company of other honorable fools.

Had Jaime come begging Tywin to take him back, to not cast him out of the family, he would have done so after a long show of hesitation. There would have been punishment, of course, and Tywin would have had him married quickly and producing a son, whom Tywin would have molded into a worthy heir of Casterly Rock. But the Gods had decreed otherwise.

Ruthlessly, Tywin squashed the anger, the betrayal and cleared his thoughts. If Jaime was not with him, then he was against him, and that meant that he would have to find a way to erase the possibility of Jaime inheriting. Mulling over the issue some more, he finally nodded and went to find the king.

The young Baratheon was drinking and, by the looks of him, had been doing so for some time now. Robert Baratheon was loud and boisterous, easy to anger and absolutely incapable of playing the Game. This was a type of man who used his muscles more than he used his head; a type of man utterly devoid of cunning and who Tywin despised. But in this case, he was glad for it.

“Lord Tywin!” roared Robert, banging his cup on the table and spilling some wine. “Come and celebrate with us! Dragonspawn no more!”

“No more!” echoed the crowd of men around the young king. Some of them looked even more drunk than Robert.

“With pleasure, Your Grace.”

Tywin sat down next to the King and began taking part in the festivities. He listened to Robert retelling his glorious duel with Rhaegar, his despondent lament about Lyanna Stark and took care to make everyone forget of just how late in the Rebellion the Lannisters joined the winning side. Slowly and drinking almost nothing, he led the conversation to the topic he had come here to talk about.

“And where’s the man who killed Mad Aerys? Where’s your son?”

Tywin affected a saddened look and sighed heavily.

“Jaime...” he paused for effect. “It saddens me to say this, Your Grace, but my son is currently traveling to the North in the company of Lord Stark.”

“Ned...” growled Robert and Tywin was pleased to see that the rift between the two foster brothers was still there. He would have to see about keeping that rift there and widening it in the future.

“Yes. It seems my son foolishly does not see the necessity of ridding Westeros of all Targaryens. Indeed, he has sided with Lord Stark on this matter. He is not the son I knew before entering the Kingsguard. I fear, under the influence of the Targaryens, he might have become a loyalist. If even a father’s loving word does not sway him...Your Grace, I hesitate to say this, but...if I were to die and Jaime were to inherit Casterly Rock...” Tywin trailed off, waiting for the implications to sink in.

“By the Gods!” roared Robert, banging his cup on the table again. “That cannot happen...but how to prevent it?” The King glanced searchingly at Tywin.

“Yes, a dire situation for House Lannister. I cannot simply disinherit him - he is seen as a hero by the realm - but mayhaps...”

“What?!”

“Mayhaps we can use his dismissal from the Kingsguard, which is irregular in itself. Certainly, he broke his vows, killing Aerys, and must be punished for that - a king is a king, mad or not - but he is a hero, so the punishment cannot be too harsh. Your Grace, as punishment, remove his right to inherit Casterly Rock and let him go with permission to establish a new house, if that is his wish. Let the North have him, if they want him. A Lannister in name only, but with no claim to Casterly Rock and the Westerlands.”

The King was silent for a time, his face scrunching up in thought. _Come on,_ Tywin thought, _I have given you the perfect solution!_ Finally, the Baratheon nodded firmly.

“Let it be so!” Then he grinned. “And that’s that. But now you’ll need an heir. Mayhaps your second son, Tyrion?”

“Tyrion...” Tywin tried not to grimace. “He is...unsuited to inherit. He very much follows his older brother in opinion, most of the time.” There was no way he would leave the Rock to the dwarf abomination that had taken his dear wife.

“Ah, I see.” King Robert took another gulp of wine. “Well, seems to me that you need a nice wench of good breeding to spit out some young lions.”

Some time later, Tywin excused himself. Everything went according to plan. He would just have to remind the King tomorrow, when - if - he was more sober, to have it done. Surprisingly, the oaf had given him a good idea. He could not depend on Cersei to give him a good heir for Casterly Rock - a second son of the Cersei-Robert union would do nicely - as his children had already disappointed him. No, perhaps a new marriage was the way to go. Maybe a daughter of one of his bannermen...or should he look farther, to gain the alliance of some other house? The position of Lady of Casterly Rock would be coveted, but he would have to choose his new wife with utmost care. Another failure was out of question.


	3. Chapter 3

# Eddard I

# 

 

_He looks like me,_ Ned thought and almost grimaced. The familiar grey eyes stared solemnly up at him and he knew already that Lyanna’s son’s heritage would be undeniable once he grew up. It was better than if he had looked the part of his father, of course, but it did not make things easier.

 

Ned’s welcome at Riverrun had first been warm and then turned icy-cold very quickly. Robb, Ned’s firstborn, favored his mother in looks. That Ned had brought with him a bastard who was clearly a Stark...well, his wife’s door would be closed to him this night and, probably, for many more nights to come. Nevertheless, he did not dare tell her or anyone of Jon’s true origins.

 

_Dragonspawn._

 

The word sent shivers down his back. Perhaps, had all Targaryens already been dead when Ned arrived and Robert had quietly - or, knowing Robert, not so quietly - sanctioned Lannister’s actions, he could have forgiven him. But ordering the murders - deliberately ordering - was not something he had believed Robert capable of. Had not wanted to believe. Where was Robert’s honor? Robert’s sense of right and wrong? As Robert’s foster brother, he had always seen the best in his friend. No longer.

 

It was a bitter realization. If Robert knew about Jon, he would kill him. There was no doubt about that. Even though Jon was Lyanna’s son; perhaps, especially because he was her son, there would be no mercy. With Tywin Lannister whispering in Robert’s ear and the grudge the Lord of Casterly Rock held against Ned, the North was in danger still. Ned had taken the Northern host home with a large part of the royal treasury - compensation for the North’s suffering; it would never make up for the many deaths, would not bridge the rift opened between him and Robert like Jon Arryn hoped - and with the agreement that the North would generally be left alone by the South. How long that would last was anyone’s guess, but Ned was determined to prepare for the time that the North would once more be pulled into the South’s politics and wars.

 

Ned stopped, surprised. His feet had taken him automatically to Riverrun’s godswood. Airy and at day bright, it was so unlike the godswood of Winterfell, but it was the closest he could get to home. And in this uncertain time, a moment in silent prayer to the Old Gods for guidance seemed to appealing. Ned had not expected to meet anyone else here.

 

“Jaime,” he greeted, making his presence known. The Lannister sat on the ground, leaning against the Weirwood, with a keg of wine next to him and a cup in hand. He had obviously been drinking heavily.

 

“Ned,” Jaime raised his golden head, saw the bundle that was his nephew and added, “and little Jon. What brings you to my corner of the woods?”

 

“Prayer, but mostly familiarity.” Ned sat down beside him, adjusting Jon in his arms.

 

“Ah, so the wife’s furious then?” Jaime smirked at the glare and offered Ned his cup. Ned hesitated, then shrugged and drank. The wine was strong and dry.

 

“Cold and furious.”

 

“I can imagine,” Jaime snorted, then stared into the distance. “If Ce... _she_ had been in this situation...ah, what am I doing? I’m too drunk, talking nonsense.”

 

“You...had someone then? Is she...dead?”

 

The Kingsguard were not allowed to have wives, but Ned knew that not all honored those vows. Especially during a time of war. Certainly, Jaime was a young man and young men had urges that not all had the power to withstand. _Young man - I’m only a few years older than Jaime._ But war had changed him, had aged him beyond his years, as he suspected it had the young Lannister.

 

“Dead? No,” Jaime’s expression shifted into soft wistfulness, “not dead. But still lost.”

 

Married or promised to another then. The man was heart-broken, Ned realized. Well, there were many good women in the North. Perhaps, in time, he could arrange for Jaime to meet some of them. Certainly, it would bind the man closer to the North and perhaps heal the wounds left behind by this mystery woman.

 

“Why are you out here drinking by yourself?” Ned shifted the conversation to another topic. “I did not take you for a follower of the Old Gods.”

 

Jaime grimaced.

 

“Old Gods, New Gods - neither ever did anything for me. But with me now a Northman, I thought it couldn’t hurt. Here - read this.”

 

It was a letter. Ned quickly scanned it, eyes growing wide. He had not expected this.

 

“My father moves fast, doesn’t he?”

 

“You are no longer the heir to Casterly Rock; no longer in line of inheritance. That your father would set you loose like that...”

 

“He’s a bastard.” Jaime grinned. “I expected no less after I broke with him so completely. Not that I ever wanted the Rock. Still...now I have absolutely no ties to bind me and...I don’t quite know what to do with that freedom.”

 

“You are welcome to stay at Winterfell until you decide. But, as I said before, the North needs men like you and it does not lack in land, if you want it.”

 

Ned certainly had ideas of where to set the Lannister up. He had big plans for making the North strong enough to withstand any threat that might come at it. For one, Moat Cailin would be rebuilt and strengthened as the foremost defense against the South. Gods forbid Robert found out about Jon...A seaport and strengthening of the North’s western coast would be good ideas. If Robert decided to attack the North, his Lannister allies could very well come by ship. And he would also have to do something with the Gift. The Night’s Watch was growing weaker and weaker. Wildling attacks grew more frequent. A bolstering of the most northern North would be good.

 

“Hmm, that’s a thought. The Lannisters of the North. My father would hate it.” The thought seemed to cheer Jaime immensely. “Let’s drink to that: to lost loves, angry wives and sticking it to my father!” He drank and offered the cup to Ned again.

 

“Aye, let’s drink to that.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

#  Cersei I 

 

Cersei had entered King’s Landing in a procession worthy of a queen. Banners with the golden Lannister lion on crimson fluttered in the wind; knights of the Westerlands rode beside her carriage and guarded the dowry of twenty chests of Casterly Rock’s gold. It was a victory march, telling the world that their future queen had arrived, claiming this city and the whole of Westeros for her own.

 

King Landing’s itself seemed in a sorry state; signs of the wave that had been the Lannister’s fury still there even weeks later. The smallfolk was partly cheering, partly gazing at the Lannister party in fear. Good. Still, her future city’s situation did not remain long on her mind.

 

Her blood had been burning for Jaime. It had been so long since she had seen him, since she had tasted his lips and felt his touch. But, soon, the agonizing wait would be over and she would be whole again.

 

Cersei’s euphoria quickly turned to fear, though. When she asked her father about Jaime, his face solidified into a cold mask and his words were spoken with vicious iciness.

 

“Do not ask. He is dead to us. You hear me? Dead,” her father told her.

 

“Dead?! Where is he?! Tell me, now - I demand it!”

 

“You demand it,” her father hissed, towering above her. “You demand nothing; you obey. Your brother has already disappointed me. You will smile, marry Robert Baratheon and work your womanly charms on him so that he forgets the dead Stark girl. Do not disappoint me, Cersei - and, now, go!”

 

It had not taken her ladies-in-waiting long to find out what had happened to Jaime. He had gone North with those wild savages, having been cast out of the Kingsguard after a row with her father. Her poor, beautiful Jaime; forced to freeze in that barren wasteland, away from her. There were some rumors that it had been his own decision, that he had gone away by his own will. Cersei discarded those as quickly as she heard them. Her golden-haired twin would not be parted from her if he could help it. Even the thought of it was ludicrous. It was her father’s fault, no doubt. But why? Had he discovered their secret? Did he know?

 

It didn’t matter, she decided. She would marry Robert, become Queen Cersei Baratheon and make him forget that little Northern whore. And, then, when she had the power, no one would be able to force her to do anything. She would order Jaime home, to her.

 

The night before her wedding, Cersei Lannister dreamed of a lion with a flaming mane, walking through fire and chasing the dark away. She woke with the certainty that she would prevail.

 


	5. Chapter 5

#  Catelyn I 

_Family. Duty. Honor. Family. Duty. Honor._

 

Cat repeated the words of her house again and again in her mind. They were the only thing supporting her right now; they and Robb. Her beautiful, beautiful son. Her Tully son; for it was undeniable that he was a Tully, with his auburn hair and blue eyes. 

 

Not like that little bastard, she thought and scowled. Her eyes had seen how her new husband interacted with the babe; how his eyes softened and his face grew less harsh. It was love, deep and pure like the waters of the Riverlands. She had often wondered who the mother was. Was she dead? Was she alive? Was she the one who her husband had to give up so that he could marry Cat? Her marriage to the second Stark son had been unexpected, done more out of necessity than true desire - she had no illusions about that. Many were whispering that this was the son of Ashara Dayne, whose beauty was famous all across Westeros. And if that were true - if Jon Snow was not just an accident of her husband’s with some lowborn woman - if he was Ashara Dayne’s son, how could she or Robb ever compare? If Ned Stark’s heart was firmly in the Dornish woman’s now dead hands, how could it ever have enough room for his Tully son and wife?

 

How could duty ever win against a love that seemed grand enough for songs and ballads?

 

It did not change her situation, of course. She was on the way north to become the Lady of Winterfell.

 

Cat pulled the cloak closer around her. The longer they traveled, the colder it got. They had passed the swamps and bogs of the Neck two days ago - for which she was tremendously grateful - and left the ruins of the once mighty Moat Cailin behind. She had read about it as preparation for when she would marry Brandon, but the reality of it had still shaken her. Moss covered the fallen stones of the ruined towers and water threatened to consume the rest. For a moment, she had wondered whether that was representative of the North: a once great kingdom fallen far and forgotten. Was that her fate now too?

 

It certainly seemed so, for her husband, the Lord Stark, spent nary a minute in her presence. Riding beside the various lords of the North, deep in discussion about one thing or another, he seldom fell back to her carriage or traveled next to her own horse, the times that she preferred to ride. Was it because she had not opened her heart to his bastard? Surely, she was blameless in that. For how could a woman love the proof of infidelity of her husband? At least he had been good enough to put the boy in another carriage and not with Robb.

 

“Good day, Lady Catelyn,” a jovial voice spoke from behind her. Cat turned and saw Ser Jaime guide his horse next to hers.

 

“Good day, Ser Jaime,” she smiled at him.

 

He looked as cold as she felt, his fur-lined cloak tightly wound around his person. Not like the sturdy Northerners, who partly rode without cloaks at all. Like she, he was from the South - the only person of any importance from the South, at least - and despite her growing up in the Riverlands and him in the Westerlands, they were closer both in culture and manner to each other than they were to the Northmen.

 

“Ah, look at us, Lady Catelyn - the two adventurous Southrons riding off into the wild North to freeze!” He laughed and not for the first time Cat wondered what such a man - a hero, by all accounts - was doing going to the North. Surely, he could have had much more success and comfort in the South. He was no homeless lowborn fleeing north from the chaos that consumed the Riverlands, after all, like others who had joined the Northern host.

 

“Indeed. Lord Umber told me yesterday that this was positively balmy weather. Though I would not like to experience Summer snows just yet!”

 

“Heh, the both of us would freeze to death for sure!”

 

They laughed and Cat felt better at once. Ser Jaime was truly one of the only rays of light on this journey, giving her reason to laugh and company that understood her. He was already firmly establishing himself as a good friend, though, thankfully, only a friend and not one of those men who wanted to see what was beneath her skirts.

 

“So, Ser Jaime, you were telling me about your younger brother, Tyrion?” She hesitated. “Is it true...”

 

“...that he was born a dwarf? Yes, indeed. The Gods cursed him with such a body, but they have gifted him with a superior mind. The lad is only nine but already smarter than I have ever been at that age. His head always in books, reading about this or that.”

 

“You must truly love him. He must be an exceptional boy,” Cat said and thought to herself that if Ser Jaime spoke so well of Tyrion, the boy must truly be of good disposition. There had been some ugly rumors to the contrary.

 

“He is, he is. Though with me gone, he won’t have many friends at Casterly Rock - if any at all. Not many people can see past his looks, unfortunately. I worry for him.” Ser Jaime’s face grew sad and Cat led the conversation into another direction. 

 

Her mind, though, was busy thinking. Ser Jaime was doing her a great service in keeping her such reassuring company, and a service rendered to a member of House Tully was always to be repaid. She thought back to Edmure in Riverrun. He was of almost the same age as Ser Jaime’s brother. Perhaps Tyrion could be fostered at her childhood home? It would do Edmure some good to be in the company of a smart boy his age, no matter Tyrion’s looks. And there had been some talk years ago about wedding Lysa to Ser Jaime. Perhaps both her father and Lord Lannister would be amenable to this arrangement? But no...she remembered the enraged rant of her father when Lord Lannister offered Tyrion as husband instead of Jaime. Though this would be only fostering, not marriage. Hmm...perhaps something with her Uncle Brynden? Now that was a thought worth contemplating. In any case, such a move would make the Lannisters more amenable to her family and that would always be a good result.

 

Decided, she promised herself to write a letter to her uncle as soon as she arrived at Winterfell.

 


	6. Chapter 6

#  Eddard II 

_Promise me, Ned. Promise me._

 

The air of the Crypts was still as the two siblings stood in front of Lyanna’s tomb, both silent in their thoughts.

 

For Ned, it felt like an ending. At the beginning of the war, he had taken up the mantle of Lord of Winterfell, thrust upon him by the deaths of his father and brother, in the hope of rescuing his beloved sister. And here he was, having failed at even that. There was only her son left now; a legacy of his wild, beautiful sister. He would not fail again. Though he had never desired the honor or duty that came with the title of Lord of Winterfell, the Gods had decided and he would do his best.

 

Ned glanced at his only remaining brother. Benjen had changed much since Ned had last seen him. Seven-and-ten years old, he looked much older than his years; clad in a cloak of sadness that was palpable to all around him.

 

“Ned,” his brother broke the silence, “I want to join the Night’s Watch.”

 

Benjen’s blue eyes were determined, perhaps even eager. It was the first true emotion Ned saw since their reunion. For just a moment, he wanted to give his blessings to his little brother. _May the Gods keep you,_ he wanted to say and allow his brother to do what he desired. But then all the reasons why he could not flared up in his mind again - the promise he had given to their dying sister; Robert’s hatred of _dragonspawn_ \- and he knew that he could not do it. Whether Benjen’s wish stemmed from a sense of duty to the North or arose from a desire to run; it did not matter.

 

“No,” he said, then added, “I am sorry.”

 

“But...you do not understand, Ned! I must go!”

 

Hands grew frantic, face scowled and eyes misted with tears of desperation. Ned had never seen his brother like this before.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because...it’s my fault!”

 

“What is your fault?”

 

“The war. Father’s and Brandon’s deaths. Lyanna’s disappearance. All of it!” Benjen hit his fists against the stone wall. “Damn it, Ned! I knew about Lyanna and Rhaegar! I knew about it! And she went with him - _willingly! I could have stopped her.”_

 

Ned sighed.

 

“Stopped Lyanna? Could anyone ever stop Lyanna from doing what she wanted? Oh, don’t look at me like that. I suspected - of course, I suspected that she ran. She never concealed her dissatisfaction with the match with Robert. Neither you nor I nor anyone could have stopped her. Lyanna would have found a way, eventually.”

 

“Perhaps if I had done something...anything...she might have hesitated, thought about the consequences of her actions.”

 

“And she might have run anyway. Nobody could have known that Mad Aerys would burn Father and Brandon. Rhaegar might have taken her anyway - with or without her consent. Knowing Lyanna, I do not doubt that at least at the end of the war, she would have wanted to return home, if only to prevent further bloodshed. But we must stop contemplating what-ifs. The war is over; Lyanna, Father and Brandon are dead. We must look forward. Is joining the Night’s Watch your penance for your perceived failure?”

 

“I...”

 

“So it is. Benjen, I am sorry, but I still cannot let you go. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell and there is a lack of Starks available right now. If I were to die now and you were at the Watch, only Robb would remain.”

 

“And Jon.”

 

“Lyanna’s trueborn son by Rhaegar.”

 

Benjen stiffened, then snorted.

 

“Heh, I figured that you would be too honorable to do that to your new wife.”

 

“And that is another reason why you must remain. You were not there - you have not seen Robert after the deaths of the Targaryen children. _Dragonspawn_. He called the children _dragonspawn_. Robert approved of the killing of the children, _reveled_ in it. Do you not think he would do the same to our nephew? To Lyanna’s son? If you want to do penance, then help me make the Starks and the North strong again. Help me protect Jon.”

 

Benjen was silent for a long time, then relaxed all of a sudden.

 

“Very well, Ned. What do you have in mind?”

 

“You will have to marry, though we have some time before we have to decide upon a match for you. It will have to be soon, regardless. Our line must be secure. I also want to rebuild Moat Cailin and build a wall there from east to west. Just as the Wall and Castle Black protect us from the Wildlings, so will Moat Cailin and the southern wall protect us from the South, for it is from there that danger comes. Starks in the past have not fortified the North because no walls or fortresses made by men could withstand dragons. But the dragons are no more. We only have to fear men and against men we can fight, if it proves necessary. Together, we will make the North an impregnable fortress of immovable stone, on which the waves of Southern aggression break. And you, Ben, will be the Commander of the Day Watch. Just as the Night’s Watch guards us from the dangers from beyond the Wall, so will you guard us from the dangers of men.”

 

“It sounds like you are preparing for war. I thought you were a friend of King Robert’s?”

 

“You have heard what I told you about the murders and his reaction. But even if he never finds out about Jon, there are still enemies in the South. Tywin Lannister whispers in Robert’s ear and he is no friend of ours. I would be the most happiest men in Westeros if my fears never come to pass, but I would not leave the security of the North to chance - or the lives of my family. Besides, history tells us that the North is inevitably sucked into the conflicts of the South. I would have our great-grandchildren look upon us with gratitude for our forethought and not curse us for its lack.”

 

Benjen stared at him and then suddenly smiled.

 

“What?”

 

“You are truly the Lord of Winterfell now, Ned.”

 

“The Gods rarely give us what we want, Ben, but sometimes they give us what we need. Come - we have much to plan yet...”

 

The two brothers turned and side by side ascended from the Crypts, leaving their dead to rest.

 


	7. Chapter 7

#  Jaime II 

 

Jaime let out a roar and brought his sword down. It cut though the bandit’s flesh, felling the last of them. Finally.

 

“Alright, Jaime?”

 

“Never better, Ben!”

 

And he meant that too. Jaime had been in the wild North for several months now and he was having the best time of his life.

 

The Northern host had returned to find that in the wake of the Rebellion, banditry had increased significantly and Jaime, along with Ned’s younger brother Benjen - who had become a good friend - and a company of other Northerners, had volunteered to take care of the problem. True, the bandits were not especially strong or skilled, but this was still much better than standing guard over Mad King Aerys as he continued to bring down Westeros in his madness. He was doing good - truly doing good - instead of being bound by oath to do ill. His soul had never felt lighter.

 

“And finally we can go home,” Benjen said, riding over to him as the rest of the company arranged themselves for the journey to Winterfell. “You’ve gained some glory, Jaime, killing that bandit leader in the last camp. Rumors say he was the worst of them.”

 

Jaime shrugged.

 

“Bandit leaders, mad kings - it’s the same, really.” Then, seeing Benjen shift uncomfortably, he laughed, “I fear my sense of humor is especially dark nowadays. Forgive me, Ben.”

 

“No, no. You are right, of course. It should be a leader’s nature to protect those he is sworn to protect, not harm them.”

 

It was an opinion he heard often here in the North. Most of his new Northern friends were more honorable than a lot of men who called themselves knights in the South. While his kingslaying was somewhat frowned upon, most saw the necessity of the act. He was more hero than oathbreaker to these people and he was grateful for that.

 

“Thank you, Ben.”

 

“It is only the truth.” Benjen then continued with another topic. “So, have you thought about my brother’s offer?”

 

“It is tempting,” Jaime admitted, his gaze shifting to the mountains in the distance. “Say...what do you know about mining?”

 

“Mining? Not much. The Manderlys have some silver mines but the North has never had much mining. Why?”

 

“I might have an idea...”

 

They talked about mining some more and never before had Jaime been as glad for his education at Casterly Rock. Before he had taken the white cloak of the Kingsguard, he had been educated as the heir to Casterly Rock and his father had insisted on him knowing how the circle of miners, goldsmiths, cutters and other artisans worked to bring wealth to the Rock. And the more Jaime spoke with Benjen, the more he was convinced that this was a good way for him to start anew here in the North. Their discussion might have continued all the way to Winterfell, had not the sound of battle reached their ears.

 

“That’s the bear of House Mormont!”

 

And, indeed, Jaime saw a small group of warriors engaged in heavy melee with what looked like bandits. Some horses lay dead on the ground, arrows sticking out of their bodies, though yet no Mormont me, thankfully.

 

“Seems we have not killed the last of them!”

 

Once more, the Northmen let out a battle cry and charged into combat. Surprise was on their side, gaining them a significant advantage. The men of House Mormont, encouraged by the sudden arrival of allies, renewed their assault under the leadership of who Jaime recognized as Lord Mormont and a...woman?

 

Jaime had to move quickly to escape the dangerous tip of a spear, blinking away his astonishment at the unexpected sight, and concentrated on the battle once more. Now, with numbers on their side and superior skill, they routed the bandits in good time, with the woman warrior having the last say, as she brought her spiked mace down upon a bandit in a gory mess.

 

He thought woman warriors were only common in Dorne. Apparently not.

 

Dressed in ringmail, face alight with battlelust, the woman was some years older than he, with a body that, though showing her womanly curves, was more suited for battle than sitting in some keep doing needle work. Dark hair whipped around her in the wind and Jaime found himself unable to look away.

 

“What? Never seen a woman wield a mace before?” she quipped, eyes challenging as she noticed him.

 

“You are not half-bad.”

 

“Not half-bad?! I’ll show you not half-bad! Come down here and face me like a man - that is, if you can call yourself that, Gold Boy!” Her gaze lowered, leaving no doubt as to her words and their meaning.

 

Jaime grinned.

 

“If you think you can handle a real man, Mace Wench.”

 

“Now, Maege, do remember that we have to get to Winterfell. I am sure Ser Jaime will agree to some sparring once we arrive.” Lord Mormont shot the woman an exasperated look before turning to Benjen. “Though your arrival was indeed fortuitous, Lord Benjen. These bandits have grown too bold during our time in the South. It gives credence to your lord brother’s plans.”

 

“True. We are returning from some bandit hunting ourselves. Are my brother’s plans your reason for journeying to Winterfell?”

 

“Yes. To talk about Sea Dragon Point, to be exact. Lord Eddard did mention the fortification of the coasts, though added that he would be concentrating on renewing the roads and holdfasts, not so much the coast defenses. Well, House Mormont knows a thing or two about ships.”

 

A Northern navy? What a quaint idea, thought Jaime, before going to help with the aftermath of battle.

 

In short order, the Mormont party joined them on their trek to Winterfell. Discussion continued about Lord Stark’s plans for the North. Jaime knew the rough plan, though no doubt the details would be decided upon in the next few months. Major effort would be put to upgrading the road network to further trade and - though that was not spoken of - make troop movements easier. The inspiration for that were the old Valyrian roads. The Day Watch - or Dawnguard or Winter Guard or whatever people were calling it - would have its headquarters in a rebuilt Moat Cailin and troops in other new and rebuilt holdfasts in the South - a Southern Wall of holdfasts that would be connected by the improved road network, perhaps in time by a true Southern Wall - as well as throughout the entire North.

 

Jaime wasn’t exactly sure why Ned Stark had started this project with such eagerness, but it was clear that at the end of it the North would be a fortress. He also had no doubt that the South and his father particularly would look upon the events here with worry. Only time would tell what consequences that would bring.

 

As they rode into Winterfell, Jaime saw the orange banners of House Martell and thought that here was another thing his father would not like.

 

It was an interesting time to live in the North indeed.

 


	8. Chapter 8

#  Cersei II 

 

Her husband was a violent drunken bastard.

 

Cersei didn’t know how she hadn’t seen it before. When Robert was not drunk, he was angry at one thing or another. The Baratheon fury was ever present in him like a cloud hanging over his head. She still had the bruises from the aftermath of Lord Arryn’s report, where he told that he had agreed to legitimize the Red Viper’s bastards amongst other concessions, so that Dorne would not continue the war.

 

If that was not bad enough, then the humiliations she had to endure due to Robert’s...adventures were worse. There were no secrets in the Red Keep. Servants talked, maids whispered and not seldom they did so about which woman Robert had fucked the night before. Did the Queen not satisfy her husband, they asked, so that he had to find satisfaction in other women? Why was she not yet with child? Had the marriage been consummated?

 

Even her father, curse him, questioned her more and more.

 

“Why have you not quickened? Your husband plows the fields and yet you remain barren. I will not stand another failure, Cersei!” he told her and she hated him even more for it and for his new wife. Ysandra Lannister, formerly Ysandra Royce, was already showing and glowing with happiness because of it. And why not? The girl was now the Lady of Casterly Rock, had a wedding so opulent that it had been worthy of royalty and her husband treated her better than Robert ever treated Cersei. Cersei, at least, was sure that her father had the courtesy to not beat his wife or call her another woman’s name in bed.

 

If only Jaime were here...Her other half would not stand for this; of that she was sure. And her problems of conceiving a child would be of the past. As it was, Robert and her father both refused to order him back to King’s Landing. Did he think of her? Or was he lying dead in that frozen wasteland being gnawed at by wolves? No, she would have to believe him safe until knowing otherwise. News from the North trickled sparingly into King’s Landing and there had been no news of him.

 

But that still left her with her problems. Jaime wasn’t here to help her and there was no way that she would birth a child of Robert Baratheon. He had humiliated her, injured her and taken her power. She would make sure that none of Robert Baratheon’s spawn sat on the throne.

 

How to do it though?

 

Cersei entered her apartments and stopped abruptly.

 

“Who are you?! How did you get in here?! Tell me, at once - I order it!”

 

There, at the window, stood a woman and the only way Cersei thought to describe her was “red”. She had hair as red as fire, was clad in a gown of crimson and wore a red gold choker that seemed to shine with an inner light. Not bad looking, even beautiful, Cersei noted with dismay.

 

“Of course, my Queen.” The woman gave a low bow and some of Cersei’s annoyance left her. “I am Melisandre and the flames have told me to come here.”

 

“What?! What nonsense is this? Get out now before I have you thrown in the dungeons!”

 

Cersei turned, ready to call the guards, when Melisandre’s words caught her attention.

 

“Have you not dreamed of a lion with a flaming mane, my Queen?”

 

“How...what sorcery is this?”

 

Melisandre smiled.

 

“Only truth, my Queen. The Lord of Light has chosen you, my Queen - I have seen it in the flames. You are the Mother of the Harbinger. Your son will be the Harbinger of R’hllor, savior of this land, Azor Ahai reborn, chasing away the darkness.”

 

“You speak nonsense.”

 

“I speak the truth, my Queen. The flames have shown me that you yearn for your other half, who was taken away from you by servants of the Great Other, so as to prevent the Harbinger’s birth.”

 

“How...how can you know?”

 

“You want your son to be his child, as it should be, but you know not how. Fear not, my Queen, for the Lord of Light has heard your distress and has sent me to you to aid you.”

 

A wild, burning hope flared up in Cersei’s soul. To have a son born of Jaime’s seed, as it should always have been...She would name him Joffrey.

 

“Tell me more.”

 

“A ritual, my Queen. A lock of your other half’s hair - the one you hide in your jewel casket - and your strong love for your other half. And one more thing...”

 

“What?”

 

“A sacrifice is needed to make R’hllor’s fires burn brighter and the ritual to succeed: a babe of your royal husband’s seed.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

#  Catelyn II 

_My dearest Cat,_ the letter read, _it warms my heart to hear from you again and know that you have not forgotten your uncle now that you are the Lady of Winterfell._

 

_As to your question: yes, I am well and find the Vale a pleasant place. Many here remember your husband fondly and speak highly of his honor and temperament. That and your news that he has ordered a sept built for you has done much to quiet my fears. It is my hope that you find joy in your marriage. Do not worry, Cat, for I am sure that the North will grow as familiar to you as the rivers around Riverrun and that the Northerners will learn to appreciate your presence._

 

_Lord Arryn, recently returned from King’s Landing, is an honorable man and worthy of his reputation. Your sister is also in good health, though I fear that she has not yet grown accustomed to being married. But I do hope that this will change for the better now that Lysa is with child. Yes, you have read correctly. Your sister is pregnant and the prospect of being a mother has done much to improve her disposition._

 

_As per your suggestion, I have offered to foster Tyrion Lannister and gained Lord Lannister’s permission to do so. The lad has arrived at the Eyrie and I feel that I must thank you for your warnings. He is indeed cursed by the Gods with only half a body, but it seems that what the Gods have taken in physical strength and looks, they have returned tenfold in wits and intelligence. Tyrion will never be a warrior, but his tongue is already as sharp as any sword and he has a mind for strategy and is well-read. His keen attention to detail has done me a great service, finding some rats in the kitchens..._

 

_It is my hope to instill a sense of honor and duty into the boy and to turn him into a good man. From what I have heard, Lord Lannister is a very harsh man and Tyrion is cynical enough without feeling that harshness every minute._

 

_It would fill me with joy were you to continue our correspondence._

 

_With best regards, Your Uncle Brynden._

 

Cat set the letter down, letting the calming effect wash over her once more. Her Uncle Brynden had always known what to say to make her feel better. And though he had not been able to write as openly as he would have spoken in a private conversation, he had written enough for Cat to read between the lines. Some of it worried her, but mostly she was just glad to keep that one link to the South alive.

 

Joy in her marriage. She almost snorted. Eddard - or Ned as he had asked her to call him - was honorable and had a quiet character. He was always polite and showed her the utmost respect. Unfortunately, there never was any passion in his gaze when he looked at her or any love. It was a small disappointment, but a significant one. She had always known that this marriage was not for love but for troops - a political alliance - but she had hoped that that would change with time. So far, it hadn’t. And with that came the doubts; whether he loved another woman still.

 

At least he seemed to love his son. Both his sons, Cat added with a grimace to herself.

 

She left her room and was almost run over by a maid.

 

“What is going on?”

 

The maid’s eyes grew wide as she hurriedly apologized.

 

“My Lady - it is the Dornish! They’re here!”

 

“Dorne?” Cat blinked. That was the last thing she had imagined happening. Dornishmen here in the North, so far from home? What did they want?

 

“Yes, my Lady. A red sun on orange, pierced by a yellow spear.”

 

And it was indeed so. Through the East Gate a rather large party of Dornish were entering Winterfell. People were staring at them and Cat didn’t doubt that most of the Northmen had never before seen a Dornish with their olive skin and black hair. The thought crossed her mind momentarily before she banished it and hurried down to play hostess.

 

_______________________________________

 

The Dornish were accorded all the honors that the North could offer. Though Cat did notice that Oberyn Martell and her husband had spent much time behind closed doors in Ned’s solar and that Lord Benjen had returned with his party and the Mormonts, she did not have much time to contemplate it all. Cat was much too busy with coordinating Winterfell’s staff, entertaining the guests and organizing everything for the grand feast that evening.

 

So it was with much surprise, when she sat next to her lord husband during the feast, that she watched Ned rise and silence the rumbustious crowd of Northmen and Dornish with a gesture.

 

“My friends,” his strong voice called out, sounding more pleased than he normally did, “it is my pleasure to be the one to announce the betrothal of my brother, Lord Benjen Stark, to Lady Obara Martell, Prince Oberyn’s daughter.” 

 


	10. Chapter 10

#  Jaime III 

 

“As if the Gods had taken a piece of purest ice and made it into stone,” Jaime said, holding the gem up to the sun. It shone in the cleanest, most vibrant of blues, catching the fire of the sun and burning with it.

 

“Aye, m’Lord,” agreed the master cutter, “I have not seen such a one anywhere in the Westerlands, nor heard of this shade of color.”

 

“So what shall you call it?”

 

“An ice sapphire of the North.”

 

“An apt name,” grinned Jaime, set the gem down and left.

 

Outside, the air was fresh and the keep busy, bustling with people. His new banner flew high over the main tower: a white lion in front of blue mountains on a grey field. A feeling of satisfaction washed over him. He had done well for himself.

 

Lionsfort, the people called it. House Lannister of Lionsfort, bannermen of House Stark. It was no Casterly Rock - far from it - but it was something Jaime had built himself, achieved without his father. Much effort had gone into Lionsfort and it would be a long time before it was even remotely finished, but Jaime was determined to have it be a success. 

 

The first time he had seen it, it was a complete ruin, abandoned for hundreds of years. Only some buildings had stood, though even they were damaged. The rest were crumbling walls and moss-covered stones. But Jaime had seen the potential of it and so Ned Stark had given him permission to settle here. It was a remote area, even here in the North. Jaime’s only nearest neighbors were the mountain clans living much higher up in the mountain valleys. Becoming good neighbors had not been easy - involving many talks, gestures, much wine and tests of strength - but he had convinced them of the benefits. “The Jim”, they called him. They were good and loyal people, though a bit rough around the edges.

 

He had written his Aunt Genna then, asking for help, and the clever woman had sent miners and cutters and other specialists his way. Aunt Genna didn’t necessarily approve of how things had gone with his father, but at least she understood and would not deny help when asked. Uncle Gerion, of course, found it all simply marvelous; a great adventure. That Tyrion was fostering with Brynden Tully - partly due to Jaime’s influence - had probably helped secure him some goodwill in Lannisport. In any case, Jaime was thankful for the support.

 

Soon enough, buildings were rebuilt, walls were pulled up and mines - one copper, one iron - opened. People came, both Southrons and Northmen, either lured by his name and reputation or by the opportunities for a better life. And then the gems were discovered; gems in the most vibrant of colors, though, undoubtedly, the ice sapphire was one of the most striking.

 

Jaime had always found it strange that the Northmen were no miners and that there was no tradition of mining in the North apart from the Manderlys. The Northmen who settled in Lionsfort found the gems to be pretty things, but were much more enthused about the iron or copper. Perhaps it was a purely Northern thing; the priority being to survive the harsh winters and put food into bellies than spend good coin on pretty stones that would not feed you. But Jaime knew the South, and nobles there would pay well for unique gems. Already, some Dornish traders had heard about them and were interested. It would not take long until the rest of Westeros heard and would take notice. Or perhaps the free cities.

 

“Lord Jaime! A letter has arrived for you!” Maester Aron was striding down the courtyard. He was a young man, originally from Tarth, but already with a complete chain. Sometimes, Jaime wondered what he thought about being sent to this remote part of the North. Judging by the layers of robes, he was still not entirely used to its climate. Neither was Jaime, truth be told, though he had been here longer than two years already.

 

“My thanks,” he nodded, recognizing the burning tree of House Marbrand on the seal. “Any other news?”

 

“Only an invitation from Winterfell with a date for the celebration of the birth of Lord Benjen’s son Lyan.”

 

“Ah, so they set the date?”

 

“Indeed, my lord. In three weeks.”

 

“Very good.”

 

They parted ways; Maester Aron to the Healer’s Hall where, undoubtedly, various patients already awaited him, and Jaime to the weirwood in the small forest next to the main tower. The white tree with red leaves had been the very first thing Jaime had seen upon his first expedition to Lionsfort. Growing proud and strong, it had probably stood there for ages, perhaps just waiting for someone to come back and rebuild the keep. Jaime didn’t know why, but he felt calm when sitting beneath its branches. And, somehow, he got the feeling that he would need this calming effect soon.

 

Jaime opened the letter and read. It was from his childhood friend Addam Marbrand.

 

 

_My friend,_ it said, _I hope this letter finds you well. Though I do not know your motivations for your actions, I know that you will have good reasons for having done what you did._

 

A few paragraphs about family and friends followed. Then...

 

_My brother Eamon has been appointed to the Kingsguard and, while I was visiting him, I learned some news that I thought you should know before finding out another way. I am not aware whether you keep in contact with your family and thus have received the news already, but you should know that your sister is pregnant and, according to Eamon’s information, absolutely ecstatic about the fact. I know how close the two of you were , how you worried about each other and how fervently she wanted to become a queen. Know, my friend, that though you are not here to protect her, we will not let any harm come to her._

 

_May the Gods keep you._

 

_Addam_

 

 

Tears rolled down his cheeks much to Jaime’s surprise. Huh, he was crying. Why was he crying? Had he not known that Cersei was lost to him? He had admitted that fact years ago, but...perhaps his heart had not known what his head had accepted. Now...now there was no hiding from the fact. Cersei had always wanted to be queen, had done everything to achieve that goal and had reached it. It seemed that she was happy with her new role in life and with her new husband. He would never taste her lips again, feel her skin or have her look at him with desire. That was another’s pleasure now, another’s love. It was time to let her go.

 

“Live well, sweet sister,” he whispered and wept silently beneath the weirwood for all things lost.

 


	11. Chapter 11

#  Catelyn III 

The children were playing, not at all disturbed by the colder weather.

 

 _Winter is coming_.

 

The words of her new House were proving true. Just last week, a white raven had arrived, warning of the changing seasons. It would be Cat’s first real winter in the North and she could only hope that it would be warmer than expected. She pulled her coat closer around her and turned away, ignoring the pang of hurt and dislike.

 

Robb loved his half-brother. They were as close as thieves, doing everything together. But Cat could not find it in herself to forgive or forget. With the birth of Lyan, who, despite his young age, already looked like a Stark, the feeling of inadequacy reared its ugly head. Both Lyan and Ned’s bastard were undeniably Starks, with their dark brown hair and grey eyes, and they even behaved similarly - solemn in demeanor and with a quiet strength she so often saw in her husband. If a stranger had found his way into Winterfell, he surely would have assumed that Ned’s bastard and Lyan were brothers and Robb the bastard. It shouldn’t be so. It was wrong. She shouldn’t feel like an outsider in her own home.

 

“My Lady!”

 

Her husband was walking towards her with his brother.

 

“You are back then, my Lord.”

 

“Aye,” he said and they both watched as Benjen, after giving his own greetings, dashed over to his son, scooping the young boy up in his arms. Ned was smiling and another stab of guilty conscience made itself known to her. Here was a husband who was kind to her, adored his children and was a wonderful lord, loved by his people. She should feel glad that this was her lot in life, not disappointed. It could have been much, much worse. “A large part of the Kingsroad in the south is on its way to being done, some holdfasts are being made inhabitable again and the Day’s Watch is getting organized. The Northern lords also tell of good progress. Benjen, Obara and Lyan will leave tomorrow for Moat Cailin.”

 

“Robb will be sad to see one of his playmates gone,” Cat noted and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. 

 

Her new good-sister was younger than she and, at first, Cat had thought that as two Southerners married to Northern lords, this would bring them closer together. She had quickly realized, though, that being a young lady from the Riverlands was something quite different to coming from Dorne. That Obara was a legitimized bastard had given Cat quite some nightmares in regards to her husband’s own bastard, but she had been willing to look beyond that. Obara, unfortunately, was something else. Easy to anger, the Dornish woman’s words were as sharp as the spear she insisted on wielding. She drank as much as the Northmen, if not more, rode like the wind and did not hesitate to say what she meant and more besides. It did not fit in with Cat’s image of a noblewoman in any way, shape or form. Having her gone would be a blessing.

 

The next morning dawned grey and frosty. Nevertheless, most of Winterfell was awake and readying the wagon train to Moat Cailin.

 

“It escapes me how you Northmen can do anything in all of this,” Obara loudly declared, her arms encompassing the snow around them. It had indeed already snowed more than Cat was used to for this time. “Water should not be frozen. It should be flowing. One should not struggle through it on horseback or in a wagon, but glide upon it on a boat.”

 

Benjen laughed.

 

“This is nothing. You should - and will - see true winter in the North soon enough, my Lady.” Then he grew thoughtful. “Though I did hear something about the Wildlings having some kinds of snowboats I think...”

 

The pair argued back and forth about various boats and ships, Dorne’s navy in the past and the North’s lack of it, before finally saying their farewells.

 

“Come here, you little wolves.” Obara gave Robb and Ned’s bastard a hug, then grinned at them. “And you promise me to practice what I taught you and show me next time we meet!”

 

The children enthusiastically agreed before giving a tearful embrace to their uncle and cousin, waving goodbye as the Starks of Moat Cailin disappeared. Cat shivered from the cold and went inside before her family. It felt calmer now but also emptier in Winterfell. Family was family, no matter that one might not agree with them or even like them very much.

 

The thought gave her an interesting idea. Why not invite her Uncle Brynden, her sister with her son Jasper and the little Tyrion to Winterfell? Perhaps seeing some familiar faces from her childhood would make her feel better. And certainly Ser Jaime would like to see his brother again. He spoke so often of him. Yes, she decided, she would talk with Ned about it. Surely, he would not say no. Meanwhile, though, she would work on giving him another son. A Stark-looking son.


	12. Chapter 12

#  Jaime IV

The day the message came was no different from any other.

 

Lionsfort was in the deep thrall of winter. At least it seemed so to Jaime, though his Northmen assured him that this was just the beginning. But it still was much colder and the snow much higher than Jaime had ever known it to be in the South. When he had first come to the North, he had not really realized what living here meant.

 

_Winter is coming._

 

The Stark words held perhaps the truest notion of all. Winter was always coming. When the people here weren’t preparing for it by storing food and ensuring that houses were in good condition, then winter was here, with the full might of its icy winds and freezing temperatures. It was truly a boon that a lot of Northmen called Lionsfort their home. Had Jaime tried to survive with the Southrons who had come, then the mistakes he might have made would have cost lives, as he, undoubtedly, would have underestimated the strength of winter. But the Northmen had known that it was coming even before the white raven and had been preparing accordingly. Mushrooms, berries and other foods had been dried, salted or otherwise preserved and stored safely; firewood had been gathered and houses repaired.

 

Jaime was proud to say that Lionsfort was ready to endure the season. The copper roofs held up well and the roads leading in and out of Lionsfort were, though packed with snow, smooth and seeing some traffic by the sleighs that were growing popular. Though mining was more difficult in winter, it was still being done and producing much needed revenue. The mountain clans that had come down and settled in Lionsfort’s small winter town were happy with their arrangement, as some of their older members would not have been strong enough to make it to Winterfell.

 

All in all, things were going well.

 

_Do you see, Father?,_ Jaime sometimes thought, _I do not need to come crawling on my knees to you to do something good with my life. I did this, created this - without your help and without deceit or dishonor._

 

It was a validation, for if his actions hadn’t been right, then surely he would not have succeeded. In Lionsfort, he had found contentment and he had never before known just how powerful that feeling was.

 

He found the message on his desk in his study. It was short, under a pile of other letters, and only informed him of the birth of one Prince Joffrey Baratheon, son of King Robert and Queen Cersei Baratheon, heir to the throne.

 

In truth, he had forgotten all about his sweet sister’s pregnancy. Rather, he’d chased the thought out of his mind.

 

And now it had come back with vengeance. This was confirmation. His sister was a resourceful woman. Had she not wanted the child, she would have found a way to get rid of it. That she had born Robert Baratheon a son meant that she was happy.

 

“I need to get drunk,” he decided, burnt the message and went to the kitchens for a flask of ale.

 

His feet, as so often in the past months, found themselves leading him to the weirwood. There was a small stone bench next to it and he swept the snow aside, sat down and began drinking. The carved face was staring back at him and he wondered whether it felt, during the long centuries of waiting, just as lonely as he did now.

 

“You know,” he spoke to it, swallowing down another mouthful of ale, letting it travel down in a burning trail inside his body, “it isn’t my fault. I didn’t ask to fall in love with her. We were just...born together, did everything together and it seemed natural to do this together too. But...she’s finally left me now. For good.” He grimaced. The flask was half-empty now. Hopefully, he would get drunk before it ran out; he wasn’t keen on going back to the kitchens. “You know, I even prayed once when I was told that it was wrong - not to you, of course, but to the New Gods. Didn’t help. Probably not going to help talking to you here. At least I didn’t freeze my ass off in the sept.”

 

The wind picked up and some snow sitting on a weirwood branch above him fell right on top of his head.

 

“Hey! It isn’t like it’s not true...” Jaime yelped, now truly cold.

 

“There are better places to drink, Gold Boy,” a voice said drily from behind. Maege Mormont was staring at him, mouth quirked up in amusement.

 

“Ah, still here then, Mace Wench?” he snapped, standing up and almost falling down again before finding his balance.

 

“The road to Dragon’s Haven is not clear yet, unfortunately.” She came closer. He blinked. Actually, she wasn’t that bad looking, was she? Well, he had known that before. “Now, do you want to tell me why you are drinking alone here in the cold?”

 

“I wasn’t alone...” It came out before he could stop himself.

 

Maege glanced at the weirwood, an eyebrow rising.

 

“Communing with the Gods? Generally, being sober helps with that.”

 

“Sober, drunk - it’s all the same. Praying’s never helped me,” he grumbled, drank the last of the ale, looked at the bottle in dismay before throwing it over his shoulder.

 

“The Gods are not always obvious in their signs.” Her expression had softened. She had nice eyes. He stared, the ale making his thoughts deliciously slow. Not always obvious in their signs... ”It will get better, whatever it is,” she told him, grabbing him by his arm and tugging.

 

And, suddenly, everything was perfectly clear in Jaime’s head. He had wanted help, a sign, and here she was!

 

Grinning, he gripped her arm, pulling her to him and they both fell back onto the stone bench.

 

“What- “

 

Her mouth tasted of salted fish and snowberries. Mmmmh. Completely different to Cersei.

 

She pushed at his chest, wrenching her mouth from his, eyes wide and frowning.

 

“You’re drunk!”

 

“I am,” he agreed and kissed her again.

 

She pulled back once more.

 

“You’re not in your right mind.”

 

“Obviously.” He leered at her. Older than Cersei, completely different in looks and temperament. And on top of him. That was important.

 

“I don’t want you to regret this.” Ah, so she wasn’t against this, was she? That was good...

 

“I won’t,” he told her, grabbing her head and pushing her down again. Well, he might regret it later, but right now he absolutely didn’t care.


	13. Chapter 13

#  Jon Arryn I 

 

“Please, Your Grace, this is Ned we are talking about. He would be the last person to ever betray you.”

 

“Damn it, Jon!” Robert banged his cup on the table, spilling his wine. His blue eyes sought out Jon’s, full of pain and uncertainty, and Jon’s heart softened once more, as it so often did. Despite some of his less honorable behavior, Robert had been the closest he had had to a son until Jasper was born. He and Ned. Robert was a man made for war, not for ruling or peace. Already, King’s Landing was sucking out all his good qualities and Jon feared that he would be unable to prevent this decline. It was this city, this throne, which did not abide honorable, straightforward men - only madmen and schemers. “Don’t you think I know that? It’s Ned - honorable, dependable Ned. But what should I think? Hmm? First, he disagrees with me about the dragonspawn, then there’s this marriage with Dorne - Dorne! - and now rumors about the fortification of the North! People are whispering that he wants the Iron Throne for himself. If this weren’t Ned...But I still can’t ignore this.”

 

And that was true too. Jon would never condone the murders of the Targaryen children, but he saw the necessity of eliminating a threat to the throne and stabilizing the realm. Ned’s reaction, while honorable, had been naive. With the rumors about the growing strength in the North - fortifications, the establishing of this Dawnguard and a marriage to a Martell - he would have agreed that this smelt of rebellion were this any other man than Ned. But it was Ned and Jon knew his foster son. He would never go against Robert without a very, very good reason - a reason that he did not have.

 

“Let me ascertain the truth of the matter, Your Grace. There could be many reasons for those actions. Banditry, for one. It has hit the Vale as well. I don’t expect the North to have been in better condition.”

 

His calming words seemed to have an effect. The beginnings of the infamous Baratheon rage ebbed away and Robert finally nodded.

 

“Very well.”

 

“I’ll send a letter to Ser Brynden at once. He mentioned to me that he wanted to visit his niece, but could not due to some trouble with the mountain clans.”

 

“The uncle of Lady Catelyn?”

 

“He’s completely loyal to me and I trust his honor to tell me anything of importance.”

 

And so it was decided.

 

After getting Robert’s agreement, Jon finally left with a mental sigh of relief. The time he had spent in the Vale was time spent not in King’s Landing, and Jon saw exactly how the lack of his presence affected Robert. Tywin Lannister’s handiwork, no doubt. It was deeply worrying. The Lannisters’ influence was growing with each year, as was Robert’s mistrust towards Ned and the North. It did not help that he was successfully alienating one of his brothers. Stannis, who had been slighted by not being named Lord of Storm’s End, was a man with a shrewd and sharp mind; exactly the person needed to watch his brother’s back in this viper’s pit.

 

Robert had spoken of marrying his brother off recently. Perhaps it would be prudent to suggest to Stannis to find himself a match that suited his own tastes? It might go a long way to mending the relationship between the brothers. Nodding to himself, Jon changed his course and began walking towards the apartments of the Master of Ships. His steps halted as he encountered a rather unwelcome sight.

 

“My Lord Hand,” the crimson-clad woman bowed.

 

“Lady Melisandre,” Jon replied with all the courtesy he could and watched as the woman moved away after giving him a small smile. He didn’t like the woman, didn’t like the influence she seemed to wield in the Red Keep or that she was the closest confidant of the Queen, even going so far as to take an active interest in Prince Joffrey. At least Lysa wasn’t enamored of this woman, but he was not comfortable to have his son around her. Though little Jasper would soon return to the Vale, thankfully, together with the letter for Lord Brynden. He was beginning to cling to his mother too much for Jon’s comfort, and Lysa would find enough diversions in King’s Landing to keep her satisfied.

 

Plans made, Jon began walking again. If he could win Stannis as an ally, his life in King’s Landing would be that much easier.


	14. Chapter 14

#  Eddard III 

 

 

 

It was early morning in Winterfell. The sky was grey and the wind cold, but Ned could tell already that the might of winter was slowly lessening. Soon, it would be summer and the fortification and improvement of the North could continue with full force. Not that Ned wasn’t already satisfied with the progress made, but he couldn’t dismiss the sense of urgency he felt so often.

 

Once more, he wondered what might have been had Robert reacted differently to the Targaryen murders, had Ned’s eyes not been opened to the horrifying deeds his friend was capable of. Would he have returned north, saddened by the deaths but content to know that a Baratheon now sat the throne and not Mad Aerys? Most likely. But now he could not ignore Robert’s actions. Had Robert told Tywin Lannister “no”, innocent children would be alive still. In the end, Lannister had only been an instrument of Robert’s, the sword to Robert’s will, even if Robert had been too cowardly to do the deed himself.

 

Did Ned regret silently preparing the North for a conflict that might never come? Acting in a way that only made tensions grow? Sometimes. But then he looked at Robb and Jon playing together like brothers, laughing, and knew that the risk was worth keeping them safe.

 

Ned stood there some more, watching the people of the Dawnguard - or Bluecloaks, as the smallfolk had begun to call them - ready the snowboats for their journey north, his thoughts conjuring up scenarios of what-might-be and what-should-never-be, before he turned away and walked over to his sleeping daughter.

 

He smiled gently. Little Sansa had her mother’s looks and would no doubt grow up to be just as beautiful as Catelyn. The Tully blue eyes opened, staring at him with the great fascination that only small babes could produce. Then, her face scrunched up and she sniffled.

 

“Oh, no, little one,” Ned whispered, carefully reaching down, gathering her up in his arms and pressing Sansa to his chest, “there’s no reason to cry. You are a Stark of Winterfell. No one shall harm you here. And when you grow up, you’ll have your brothers to defend your honor or perhaps you’ll beat them up yourself, if you take after your Aunt Lyanna. See? There’s nothing wrong. You’ll have a strong pack of wolves to chase away all the monsters.”

 

Sansa’s little eyes closed and her breathing steadied as she drifted off into sleep again. Ned put her down again and turned towards the door, his body stilling as he saw his wife in the doorway. Her face was calm, though her eyes were gentler than they normally were, as she studied him.

 

“My Lord,” she greeted him, her voice polite, and Ned had to fight himself to keep from frowning.

 

In the months before Sansa’s birth their marriage had seemed to flourish. Though Ned had been often occupied with his various duties and projects, their interactions had been warm. He had thought that she had finally grown used to living in the North. As far as he could tell, the people of Winterfell accepted her as their mistress and spoke well of her. But something had changed after Sansa’s birth. Cat had withdrawn from him and it was as if they were back at the beginning again.

 

“My Lady.” He paused, then added, “I was just visiting with our daughter.”

 

Cat stiffened slightly and now Ned truly frowned.

 

“Is something wrong...Cat?”

 

Eyes grew wide before she looked away.

 

“No...it is nothing...Ned.”

 

“Clearly it is enough to distress you.” Sansa shifted in her crib at his raised voice and he softened it again. “Would you be so kind to accompany me to my solar?”

 

For a moment she looked ready to refuse, but then nodded.

 

“Now, would you tell me what distressed you so? Is something wrong with Sansa? Or have you suffered from the aftermath of the birth?” He was not well-learned in such matters, but knew enough to ask.

 

“No, no, my Lord. I am well, as is our daughter.”

 

He nodded but was now determined to know the truth of the matter.

 

“Then, have I displeased you, my Lady?”

 

“No, of course not, my Lord.” But the answer had come too quickly for it to be believable.

 

“I would have us be truthful to each other. Please, my Lady, speak freely and tell me so that I can remedy my mistake.”

 

His wife’s eyes narrowed, face tensed and he saw a hidden fury in her body.

 

“Then,” she said coldly, “you will send _him_ away.”

 

Jon. It was always about Jon.

 

“I had hoped that you accepted his presence.” Ned sighed.

 

“Accepted? _Never,”_ she almost hissed, but then swallowed. “You are the Lord of Winterfell, my Lord. It is your decision to let him remain here, though it shames me and my children - your true-born children. I know that you do not love me...”

 

“ - I do!” And he did. How could he not? Cat had given him two beautiful children. If none of her other qualities would make him love her - which she had in abundance - then that single fact would.

 

“Apparently not enough to not shame me,” she countered. Her words sped up, like water spilling forth from a break in a dam. “But I can learn to live with that, as is my duty. But how can I be certain that you will not legitimize your bastard and give him Winterfell? I have given you two true-born children who look more fish than wolf - but how can that be enough when you have a son, whom you love so much as to shame me, who is the _very image_ of a Stark?! Your brother married a legitimized bastard!”

 

Ned grimaced. He had not thought that his wife harbored such doubts. They were eating away at her, like a wound that had grown infected. It would not do - it _could_ not do.

 

“I would never put aside Robb or Sansa. They look like you, yes, but they are Starks of Winterfell. Robb is my heir and he shall remain so, whatever comes. I promise you - nay, I _swear to you_ \- that I will not legitimize Jon and make him my heir. You have nothing to fear, my Lady.”

 

There was silence, but Cat seemed to deflate, perhaps believing him finally.

 

“But you will not send _him_ away.” It was more statement than question. She sounded resigned, tired, and not for the first time Ned agonized over the choice he had made years ago.

 

“No.”

 

“If we are speaking truth to each other, will you at least tell me who his mother is?” _Who is the woman you love more than me?_ The question went unspoken but hovered in the air still, loud and clear.

 

He opened his mouth, for a moment almost uttering Lyanna’s name. It would be so easy, so very easy...

 

_...promise me, Ned. Promise me..._

 

But he could not.

 

“I see.”

 

Before Ned could utter an apology, an explanation, his wife quietly turned and walked out of his solar, closing the door silently behind her.


	15. Chapter 15

#  Tyrion I 

 

“Tyrion!” The pitter-patter of small running feet approached quickly and Tyrion had to brace himself so as to not topple backwards. Jasper Arryn’s Tully blue eyes beamed up at him as he hugged him and there was nothing to do but smile back.

 

“So you remember me, do you, little man?”

 

Jasper pouted.

 

“Of course I remember you! I’m not a babe! And I’ll be bigger than you soon!”

 

“That you will be.” Tyrion ruffled the boy’s brown hair, banishing the pang of sadness and instead rejoicing in the utter adoration that Jasper bestowed upon him. The little boy was growing quickly and would, no doubt, be a tall man once he grew up. Neither his mother’s family nor his father’s were short.

 

“I don’t see your lady mother with you.” Normally, the Lady Lysa was never far from her offspring, trying to clutch him to her like a girl’s doll. And she seemed to hate Tyrion on principle alone. How little Jasper had decided on him as his most liked person in the face of that, Tyrion would never know.

 

“She’s back with Father. But Father sent me back here to learn about ruling. I’m now the Arryn in the Eyrie!” Jasper’s chest puffed out with pride.

 

“Yes, that you are. But you will have to study hard to be a good ruler. Do you remember what I told you?”

 

“My mind is mightier than any sword!”

 

“Good boy,” Tyrion smiled, “and now tell me all about your time in King’s Landing.”

 

As Jasper launched into a detailed accounting of his journey, Tyrion put an arm around him and led him to the kitchens for a small snack.

 

__________________________________________

 

Much later that day, Tyrion sat on a bench in the Eyrie’s garden. Once upon a time, he had heard, it had been meant to house a weirwood, but the Northern tree could not take root in the stony soil. The Eyrie was a strange place - no septon in the sept, no weirwood in the godswood. It almost seemed as if whatever gods there were had forsaken it. Which suited Tyrion just fine. There were no judging eyes here, no people that saw him as Tywin Lannister’s shame and no gods to condemn him. Whatever the Eyrie’s inhabitants had thought of him upon his arrival - whether it had been good or not - they now took their cue from their little Lord Jasper. A little boy who looked up to Tyrion as a big brother, Tyrion’s own wits and intelligence, as well as a sharp sense of humor, had earned him respect and perhaps even some affection.

 

Sometimes, he wondered what would have happened had he remained in Casterly Rock. Remembering his father’s cold eyes, his sister’s hatred, he was sure that it would not have been as good as his time here.

 

“Ah, there you are, Tyrion!” Ser Brynden’s smoky voice was warm and his eyes kind as he sat down beside him. “I should have known.”

 

Tyrion liked the Eyrie in general. The howling of the wind did not bother him and when he looked out of the windows of the towers, he could see for miles upon miles into the distance. Here, he was taller than the rest of the world, flying above them. But the godswood...there was something special about a place the gods could not see.

 

“I received a letter from Lord Arryn. We will journey to the North to visit with my niece - and to see your brother, if you want - before I take my place as Knight of the Gate.”

 

The implications were not lost on Tyrion.

 

“So the Crown grows worried about the North’s actions.” News from the North were sparse, but even in the Eyrie people had heard about the changes in the North. The marriage of Lord Stark’s brother to a legitimized bastard Martell had created quite the scandal at the time. “And we are tasked to assess the dangers.”

 

“Yes,” Ser Brynden admitted, smiling at him, and Tyrion allowed himself to feel proud. Ser Brynden had taken great care to educate him both in strategy and politics, to sharpen his mind and make it into a fine weapon.

 

“And if there are dangers?” Tyrion thought of Jaime, of Ser Brynden’s niece Catelyn Stark.

 

“If it comes to that, we will see.”

 

Ser Brynden clasped him on his shoulder and then left. Tyrion stared at his back with a frown.

 

Once, shortly after Tyrion had arrived, Ser Brynden had explained to him the Tully words. _Family, Duty, Honor._ Family stood by you when nobody else did - and in turn you stood by them. By that definition, his father and sister were no family at all. But it was by Jaime’s hand that Tyrion ended up fostered here. Even distanced and far away, Jaime had stood by him. He was happy in the North, judging by the various letters they exchanged. If it came to conflict, would Ser Brynden stand by his niece’s family? What would happen if Family conflicted with Duty and Honor? What would Tyrion do?

 

The feeling of joy he had momentarily felt at the notion of seeing Jaime again now combined with a sense of dread.


	16. Chapter 16

#  Brynden I 

 

The journey north was miserable in every sense of the word. Though the Riverlands were comfortably familiar to Brynden, as soon as he, Tyrion and their small party entered the Neck, it seemed as if they left everything that could be considered civilization behind. The chill in his body could not be chased away no matter how many layers of clothes he wore and the atmosphere of loneliness and desolation pressed down upon all. Nobody talked much, and if they did, they did so in voices that were almost whispers.

 

Brynden had never put much stock in the Old Gods, but here and now, amongst half-sunken trees, snow-covered earth and a bleak shore, he could almost believe that they watched him and his companions. It was ridiculous, of course. As knight, as a follower of the Seven, he should not have felt this way, but it was so. The impression of entering an older, ancient part of the world, where such things as magic or mythical creatures might be hiding behind the next tree, would not leave him.

 

It was with this feeling that they arrived at Moat Cailin. Brynden knew, of course, that the once mighty fortress had been a ruin and that the North had begun to rebuild it. Still, the result was impressive, such as it was. There were beginnings of a great wall being constructed, the three towers gleamed like black trees reaching for the sky and a banner flew high over them. It was a white and red tree - a weirwood - with crossed blue swords beneath, on a grey field. So this was the infamous Dawnguard.

 

“Impressive,” murmured Tyrion beside him, sharp eyes analyzing everything they saw, and Brynden nodded in agreement.

 

Yes, it was indeed impressive - and worrying. As they were admitted into the stronghold, Brynden could not help but notice the newly erected buildings with copper roofs, the construction of another tower and the multitude of people. Blue cloaks were everywhere and, just from a glance, Brynden estimated that the numbers in Moat Cailin were not small. This was a strong garrison and the fortifications already present would make any enemy coming from the South have a tough time taking this fortress. What this place would look like in ten, in twenty years...He had no doubt that Lord Stark planned to make it impenetrable.

 

“Ser Brynden, Lord Lannister.” Bread and salt were offered and accepted, and Brynden could breathe easier.

 

“A mighty fortress you have here, Lord Commander Stark.”

 

“Aye.” There was a hint of a smile on his face. Brynden had met Ned Stark only briefly, but Benjen reminded him of his brother: unfailingly polite and solemn, though perhaps not as severe. He imagined his niece trying to find joy in a marriage to such a man and almost grimaced. This was no Southern knight, though the quiet strength and unyielding eyes spoke well of Benjen Stark’s character. “A worthy headquarters for the Dawnguard.”

 

“Ah, yes, the Dawnguard...I admit it surprised me to hear of its conception.” Brynden made sure to sound nonchalant. “In the Riverlands, most lords would never consent to such a private army.”

 

“Nor would the Northern lords,” Benjen Stark smiled, taking a sip of his wine, “but as the Dawnguard is a guard and not an army, there were no problems. The North is as big as the other kingdoms taken together, as you know. After we returned from the Rebellion, the consequences of our absence could be seen plainly in the heightened banditry throughout the North. A permanent solution was needed and thus the idea of the Dawnguard took hold. The King’s peace is kept, banditry is at an all-time low and travelers feel more secure on the roads. We actually spend more time keeping them in a good condition than hunting bandits.”

 

Which were all very good reasons and the Lord Commander’s words rang true, that much Brynden could discern. The fact remained, though, that this Dawnguard could as easily be turned into an army marching south, loyal to House Stark. Benjen Stark was young for a commander, but there was no doubt as to where his loyalties lay. It all came down to a single question, in the end: was the North planning a rebellion of their own?

 

They remained at Moat Cailin a day, experiencing Benjen Stark’s hospitality, which was in no way worse than a Southern lord’s. In that time, Brynden’s thoughts only strengthened in regards to the North. This did not smell of disloyalty and rebellion, but neither did it seem entirely like something done to just stop banditry and secure inner peace.

 

Brynden had hoped to meet the infamous Obara Stark, but found out that she and her son Lyan were currently in Dorne so that the boy could “experience his mother’s homeland”. This strange bond between the North and Dorne did not help assuage Brynden’s fears, but there was nothing he could do about it.

 

They departed early one morning, taking the well-wishes of Lord Commander Stark with them, though Brynden imagined that the man was glad to be rid of them and their Southron eyes. The Kingsroad was in good condition and they made good time. Every few miles, there were either watchtowers or small reconstructed holdfasts, filled with the Bluecloaks that seemed ever-present. Several times, Brynden and his companions saw them in their snowboats or repairing some part of the road. It led credence to Lord Commander Stark’s words.

 

It was not hard to find good accommodations. Inns were numerous along the Kingsroad, as were the Dawnguard’s holdings, where nobody denied them a place to sleep and rest, especially after hearing of their high birth. Listening to the Northmen talk, there was no mention of rebellion or anything that would go into that direction. Indeed, most of them thought that the North should stay out of the South’s squabbles, which, most of the time, had nothing to do with them, and praised Lord Eddard Stark for bringing prosperity to the region.

 

Aside from them, there were more travelers on the Kingsroad than Brynden had expected. A road crossed the Kingsroad from west to east - from White Harbor to Barrowtown, as it was explained to him - and it seemed that a rather sizable town was growing at the crossing.

 

“It’s where the traders coming from the South, Barrowton and White Harbor meet, m’Lord,” a local Bluecloak told him. “They’re all wanting those shiny stones the folks north are mining. Began with the Mountain Lion - eh, Lord Jaime Lannister, that is - and then Greatjon Umber decided to do the same. Strange folks those Southrons...oh, no offense, m’Lord, of course...but it’s strange to me...saw one of those pretty stones m’self once. Small as the tip of my finger and worth a dozen sacks of flour! Madness.”

 

Madness it might have been, but it clearly brought an unknown quantity of wealth to a region sorely in need of it.

 

They rode on and finally arrived at Winterfell several hours before the sun would set. It was a huge castle, one if not the largest Brynden had ever seen. The direwolf of House Stark flew proudly over it.

 

“What do you think?” Tyrion asked him, eyes trained on the castle. He had been an invaluable asset on the journey, sharing his impressions and noticing things that Brynden had missed.

 

“That I shall see for myself if my niece is happy.” And that he would ask Catelyn some very interesting questions. After all, whatever she might be now, she was still a Tully.

 

_Family. Duty. Honor._

 

Then he would see how to proceed, for everyone’s sake.


	17. Chapter 17

#  Catelyn IV 

 

Her Uncle Brynden’s arrival in Winterfell was a welcome event. Part of Cat was deeply relieved to see a familiar face of her youth after so long of being surrounded by Northmen. The other part felt nervous. She was the Lady of Winterfell and it was both duty and pride that led to her wish of showing her uncle that she not only survived here in the cold North but flourished.

 

Cat made every effort to make her uncle and his ward welcome. Rooms were chosen that were much warmer than others available, as she knew that Southerners had a different view of the cold than the Northmen. Baths were readied and a feast prepared.

 

Everything was going splendidly. Ned and her uncle were deep in discussion, her husband as immovable as stone and Uncle Brynden as charming as always. His ward, Tyrion, was something else, though. Naturally, she had heard of his physical...attributes, but the reality of it had still shocked her deeply. Jaime Lannister was the epitome of a hero of one of the Southern songs: golden, undeniably handsome and generally striking. Tyrion Lannister, on the other hand, was not - and it almost led to a terrible slight.

 

When her uncle’s party had arrived, there had been an incident with the children, who had never before seen someone of Tyrion’s stature.

 

“Are you a child of the forest?” Robb had asked, visibly afraid at seeing Tyrion but curious and bold in a way only little boys were.

 

“Don’t be stupid,” the bastard had replied, nodding sagely, “children of the forest have dark skin. Everyone knows that.”

 

Tyrion, thankfully, had only laughed.

 

“Ha! I’ve been called much worse in my life. No, I am not something as important as that. Only a Lannister.”

 

And that had been that. Though it had been a difficult start, now the young Lannister was getting along with the children, laughing, joking and being as charming as she knew Jaime to be. Once one looked beyond physical appearance, there was much there that told the world of them being brothers. It was as good a character recommendation as any and perhaps better than most.

 

Still, Cat was pleased with how the feast went. The food had been plentiful, both in amount and in variety. A fresh batch of fish had arrived from the ice fishers of Long Lake. The kitchens had made baked trout with a fruity snowberry sauce. Seasoned venison from a deer shot some days ago was the main course, with salted mushrooms and potatoes - a food introduced by the way of Dornish traders and quickly growing popular here in the North. Wine had flowed freely and the guests were lavish with their praise.

 

After the feast, her uncle had asked her to show him Winterfell and together they had departed. The castle was huge, but there was much to show and much to talk about. Uncle Brynden told her of his life in the Vale, of the Eyrie and its towers and views, of her little nephew Jasper and her sister. Cat didn’t ask him about her father, knowing that the rift between them was still there. Sometimes, she envied Uncle Brynden his freedom. Cat had not had the power or even the bravery to tell her father “no” when he had decided on her marriage to Eddard Stark. Not that it would have had any effect on her father’s decision. Cat was a woman and a woman’s duty was to further the connections of her House, gaining alliances and wealth.

 

“Are you happy, Cat?”

 

They had stopped in the sept Ned had built for her. It was simple and not at all like the great septs in the South. It was also lonely. There was no other follower of the Seven in Winterfell, only Cat.

 

“That is a sudden question, Uncle.”

 

“It is not sudden at all, Niece. I am only concerned for your happiness. I know that this wasn’t what you had expected - before.”

 

Before Brandon had died. Before the Rebellion. Was she happy? She pondered the question. Her husband was a just and good man. He had built this sept for her, even though he had not needed to. After that disagreement, he had gone out of his way to make her feel appreciated. Ned was not a man of many words, but his actions spoke much louder. She found fresh flowers in her rooms, her favorite dishes on the table and he took the time to spend it with her, taking walks in the godswood or in the glass garden. He visited her rooms more often and his touches were gentle and pleasing. He loved her children, though they looked more Tully than Stark.

 

The only blemish was the bastard.

 

He loved Jon Snow and did not tell her anything about his mother. Was she the love of his life? More important than Cat? The doubts still lingered, but they had lessened of late, thawed due to Ned’s attentions. Even if there was still a place in Ned’s heart for the bastard’s mother, it certainly seemed as if he was determined to lock it away in the darkest corners of his mind and focus on their marriage.

 

It was not entirely sufficient, but Cat resolved for it to be enough.

 

“It was not what I expected, but...I think that I am. Happy, that is.”

 

Uncle Brynden gave her a doubting look.

 

“It must not be easy to be living with him looking so much like your husband.”

 

Cat bit her lip, almost turned away and swallowed.

 

“It...isn’t, but I have come to accept the situation.” She hadn’t, truly; perhaps tolerate it. Never accept. “My husband...won’t be swayed on this subject.”

 

“Ah.”

 

Uncle Brynden left it at that.

 

“Jon Snow is not a bad boy,” she admitted, not knowing herself why she was defending Ned’s bastard. “He is very much like Ned in that way.” Which did not make things easier in the least. Oh, why could the boy not have taken after his mother at least in looks if not in personality? Cat fell silent.

 

They left the sept and continued their walk, passing the snowboats of the Bluecloaks who were in Winterfell at the moment.

 

“The North is not what I expected,” Uncle Brynden confessed, nodding towards them.

 

“Much has changed in the last few years.”

 

“Yes, much has changed.” There was something in his voice that made Cat listen closer. “New sources of income due to mining, new trade agreements with Dorne, the establishing of this Dawnguard at Moat Cailin...”

 

“And the Northmen love him for it,” Cat added carefully. “People live better than they did before Ned became Lord of Winterfell.”

 

“Of that I have no doubt...” And there it was again.

 

“Uncle,” Cat stopped, turning to him, “please, tell me - what is on your mind?”

 

Uncle Brynden looked at her for a long time, then pulled gently on her arm and they were walking again.

 

“Recent developments here have not gone unnoticed nor uncommented.”

 

Cat felt herself go pale, her fingers gripping her uncle’s arm tightly. She had never thought about how all of this must look to the South, too concerned with establishing herself as the Lady of Winterfell and fighting for Ned’s affections. But now...

 

“You speak of madness,” she whispered.

 

“I speak of what is spoken in King’s Landing. What is whispered in the King’s ear.”

 

“Then what is spoken are lies! Ned’s attentions and concerns lie entirely in the North.”

 

“Hmm...do they though? The decision to marry his brother to the daughter of Oberyn Martell is...curious.”

 

“Is Dorne not a part of Westeros, Uncle? The marriage has brought much needed wealth to the North and trade connections. I do not see you question Tywin Lannister or the Reach lords...Ned has knelt to Robert Baratheon. He is a man of honor and keeps his oaths.”

 

Her uncle suddenly grinned, then laughed loudly.

 

“Ah, little Cat. You have turned into a true she-wolf! Perhaps this marriage is truly a good thing for you.” The grin disappeared and he turned serious again. “But, Cat, do take care. I believe you, but not everyone in the South is as willing to think the best and not the worst. You know the politics. Many have or find reasons to dislike the North. Your husband is a good man - I have seen this - but good men often fall to a dagger from the shadows.”

 

Needless to say, Cat did not sleep well that night.


	18. Chapter 18

#  Tyrion II 

 

“Aye, a bastard you are, just as I am a dwarf,” Tyrion explained patiently, noticing how Jon scowled at him but held his words of anger back. The lad was already old beyond his years and understood things that few did at his age. But then again, it was said that bastards grew up quicker. “I envy you for it.”

 

“Envy? What’s there to envy? I’ll never be Lord of Winterfell - that’s been made clear to me as soon as I could understand what _bastard_ meant. I’ll never be as good as Robb.”

 

“And yet you will have something he won’t ever have - freedom.” The pair sat down beneath the branches of the weirwood and Tyrion thought of how to structure his words so that young Jon Snow would understand their meaning. In a way, the boy reminded him of himself, though twisted into another form. And Tyrion always had felt companionship with those less fortunate in this world. “Freedom to choose your own path. Whether you want to become a knight, a sellsword somewhere in Essos, a brother of the Night’s Watch or a member of your Dawnguard or perhaps something else entirely - you will be free to choose your destiny. Aye, your brother will become Lord of Winterfell, but he will marry for politics and alliances - not for love like you can - and his duties as lord will constrain him, never allowing him to step outside his role. Yet, though you are a bastard, you grow up in your lord father’s household, take the same lessons and gain the same education as your trueborn siblings. You have your father’s love - something I never had with mine.”

 

“But...you are your father’s heir, Tyrion.”

 

“That might be so, but I am also a dwarf. Remember, Jon: bastards can be trueborn sons in their father’s eyes, but dwarves can only ever be bastards, no matter trueborn or not.”

 

Tyrion stood up.

 

“Look upon your status as an opportunity, not a constraint, Jon. Embrace it and no one will ever be able to use it against you.”

 

With that, he left Jon sitting beneath the weirwood. Hopefully, the young boy would take away something worthwhile from his words.

 

The next day, Tyrion and Ser Brynden departed Winterfell with their party north towards Lionsfort. Farewells were said, gifts given and soon the grand castle shrank behind them. Tyrion left with a feeling of satisfaction. He had the impression that he had gained some friends in the Starks - a valuable commodity for a dwarf and a Lannister in equal measure. Ser Brynden, too, looked less tense than he had before their arrival in Winterfell and Tyrion concluded that this was due to some of his worries allaying. That was good news. Tyrion did not think fondly of a conflict between the North and the South, especially with different members of his family on both sides.

 

Their journey to Lionsfort was fast and without problems. First, they moved along the Kingsroad - it was in as good a condition as its parts in the south, probably having been a priority during the road upgrade - and then veered west, following another road towards the distant mountains that could be seen from time to time, when the trees allowed it. This road was in good condition too and saw much traffic. Snowboats with the ever-present Bluecloaks patrolled it, sometimes seeming to guard a caravan with what Tyrion assumed to be Lionsfort gemstones. Jaime’s new source of wealth certainly lent credence to the saying that Lannisters shit gold, though now it was not only their father doing so. Tyrion could only hope to one day be just as successful. Small huts, foresters and hunters were sometimes seen along the way, though infrequently. That changed when they finally arrived at Lionsfort.

 

Stone walls sheltered what looked like a small, but growing town. Most houses were not tall, but all had copper roofs, which gleamed in the sun. Over the highest tower flew his brother’s new banner. The white lion in front of blue mountains on a grey field was not as opulent as the traditional Lannister colors of red and gold, but, from all that Tyrion remembered of his brother and the words in his letters, it suited Jaime perhaps better. Behind the town, impressive mountains towered and Tyrion could see the entrances to the mines that produced the North’s new wealth.

 

They rode through the gate into Lionsfort. At once, Tyrion noticed how busy it was here. There were people that he recognized from Lannisport - second and third sons - and others that were obviously Northmen. Some, though, looked like neither; their faces brown from a sun that was not found in these parts. Dornishmen, probably, or perhaps Essosi.

 

Someone must have told Jaime of their arrival, for his brother awaited them in front of the keep. He looked...different. Tyrion remembered Jaime as a tall, golden figure - well-groomed and the epitome of a Southern knight. Though his brother was still tall, there was no golden armor on him. Instead, Jaime wore chain mail with a furred cloak over it. His hair was longer than it had been and he had a rather Northern-looking beard. One of his arms was in a sling, too.

 

“Tyrion!” Jaime’s face lit up in a smile and he enveloped Tyrion in a one-armed hug that almost lifted him off the ground. “Ah, and Ser Brynden and company! Be welcome in Lionsfort!”

 

“Ser Jaime,” Ser Brynden nodded, his face softening at such a warm welcome. “My niece speaks highly of you.”

 

“Yes, the Lady Catelyn. How is she?”

 

“Well and sending her greetings, as does Lord Stark.”

 

“That is very kind. I had wanted to be there in Winterfell, but unfortunately it was not to be...”

 

Someone coughed behind Jaime and both Lannister brothers turned, Tyrion for the first time noticing the people standing behind his brother. An imposing man, broad-shouldered and with a raven on one of those shoulders, waited politely. He had the bearing of a lord. Not someone to cross, Tyrion decided. Next to him was a younger woman, though still several years older than Jaime. She was stout, dark-haired and in ringmail, with a very wicked-looking mace. She glanced at Jaime with annoyance.

 

“Forgive me,” Jaime coughed, then straightened. “May I introduce Lord Jeor Mormont of Bear Island and his sister, Lady Maege Mormont. My lord, my lady, these are Lord Tyrion Lannister, my brother, and Ser Brynden Tully.”

 

Greetings were exchanged as politeness dictated.

 

“So this is your infamous brother, Jaime,” Lady Maege grinned roguishly. “I’ve heard much about you, Lord Tyrion.”

 

“Should I be worried, brother?” Tyrion asked playfully, his eyes noticing the closeness between the Lady Maege and Jaime. There was something there, undoubtedly...

 

“I’ve only told her the truth.”

 

“I should be worried then,” Tyrion grinned, following as Jaime invited them inside, falling back into familiar patterns of his youth.

 

The next few days were highly enjoyable. Jaime was a good host, obviously remembering his education in Casterly Rock well. The food was tasty and filling, the wine of good quality and the men surrounding Jaime all good sorts. Some of the mountain folk were rough around the edges, but Tyrion found in them good drinking partners and companions once they got over his size. 

 

Tyrion also learned some more information about the region. The road they had taken to Lionsfort continued onwards to Deepwood Motte and then to Dragon’s Haven, where the Mormonts were trying to establish something of a Northern navy. It was slow going, but progressing. Tyrion could see the value in it. Deepwood Motte and its new port city Deepwood Harbor profited the most from the new gem trade on the western coast, being closest to Lionsfort and getting ships from the Reach and even the Westerlands. Any pirate or raider who wanted to attack it, would have to contend with Dragon’s Haven and the Mormont ships. There had, apparently, been some complicated deals agreed upon to make this arrangement happen, but then again Lord Jorah Mormont had a Glover wife.

 

“You have integrated well here,” Tyrion told his brother as they sat in his solar, sipping wine, a few days after his arrival.

 

“I feel comfortable here,” Jaime admitted, shrugging.

 

It was true. Tyrion had never seen his brother as relaxed as he was now. Some kind of burden had fallen away from him here in the North. It was good to see him happy. Perhaps even happier soon, if Tyrion read the situation with Lady Maege correctly.

 

“Mayhaps, you’ll soon give me nieces and nephews to spoil, brother?”

 

Jaime almost choked, then threw him a frown.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Oh, don’t be shy! I’ve seen how you behave with her! You love her, brother - I can see it in your eyes. And you’re fucking her already anyway.”

 

This time Jaime did choke.

 

“Must you be so crude? Lady Maege deserves more than that...”

 

“Like you making an honest woman out of her? I don’t see your problem or why you hesitate. Certainly, she does not seem against such an arrangement. And her daughters are well-cared for, aren’t they?”

 

Jaime nodded.

 

“Yes. They shall inherit Dragon’s Haven. There’s some talk about a marriage to a Glover for Dacey, the eldest...”

 

“Then I don’t see your problem, brother.”

 

Jaime was silent, staring at him for a long time. There was a strange kind of sadness around him and it made Tyrion only more determined to see his brother happy. Jaime had done him a great favor in arranging his fostering in the Vale; it was only right that Tyrion do everything to make him happier. And Lady Maege Mormont made him happy. It was a strange choice. She was good-looking enough, but no traditional beauty. Her temper was volatile and she fought like a she-bear, enjoying violence and battle entirely too much. But perhaps that was something Jaime appreciated. He had spoken fondly of her prowess in battle during the wildling incursion where he had gotten his arm injured. It was not Tyrion’s kind of thing, but, then again, tastes differed.

 

“There are...considerations you don’t know about.”

 

But Tyrion thought that he might guess which considerations his brother meant. There had been rumors and Tyrion certainly had seen some things in his childhood that indicated that the rumors had some truth in them.

 

“If any of these reasons lie in the South, then you should forget them, brother,” he said carefully, almost shifting under Jaime’s intent gaze. “You are of the North now. Father will never take you back now that you have slighted him so. You have been successful without his input and that he cannot tolerate. King’s Landing and our family there is just as barred to you, for the King has not forgiven Lord Stark’s attitude or yours so many years ago - and those who counsel him do not let him forget.” Tyrion paused. “Do you love your she-bear lady?”

 

Jaime was silent for a long time, then almost with resignation he nodded. 

 

“Aye, I do.”

 

“Then your path forward is clear: go and ask for her hand, give me many nephews and nieces to spoil rotten - and be happy, Jaime. Be happy.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

#  Eddard IV 

 

“Bedding! Bedding! Bedding!” The chant grew louder and louder. Faces red from drink and merriment focused their attention on the bride, who smirked, crossed her arms and let herself be carried off to the bedchamber.

 

“You do not seem concerned for your sister,” he commented quietly to Jeor Mormont. The Old Bear just shrugged before he smirked in a similar way to Maege.

 

“My sister is strong enough to look after herself. I would worry more for the drunk fools who’d dare try something.” And, indeed, moments later a pained yelp was heard before one of those drunk fools stumbled back into the hall, clutching his crotch. Ned winced and took another sip of the birch juice he had switched to some hours ago.

 

“I see what you mean,” he said and paused. “Though permit me to say that I was surprised to hear of this union. I thought that your sister didn’t want to marry.”

 

Jeor shrugged again.

 

“Don’t ask me how he convinced her - I probably don’t want to know. But it is a good match. Your Southron lion did well here.”

 

Ned could only agree as he looked at a much less resistant Jaime Lannister being guided towards his new wife, throwing gallant smiles at the giggling women while they undressed him. That day, so long ago, in King’s Landing, he had not offered Jaime a place in the North just because of pragmatic reasons, but more because he had sensed a kindred soul in the young man. In the following years, the man had proven himself to be an asset to the North, bringing wealth and fortune to it, and a good and loyal friend.

 

“A Northern lion now. I thought the wedding would take place in the sept.”

 

“Aye. It was his idea.”

 

It had surprised him that Jaime had sworn his oaths in front of the weirwood and married Maege in the Northern fashion, putting his new cloak around her shoulders and giving her such an ardent kiss that was usually only reserved for the bedchamber. Nobody had any doubts that this was a marriage of love and not of convenience.

 

“You are still set on your plan, then?” Ned switched to another topic.

 

“Aye. Jorah is old enough and wise enough to rule now and his wife is pregnant.” 

 

“Good news.” The whole world seemed to be getting pregnant. Obara carried another little Stark in her belly - and resisted all of Ben’s efforts to make her rest - and Cat, though still recovering from Sansa’s birth, had told him that she wanted to try for another child. Yesterday, a raven had arrived that the Queen was pregnant too, securing Robert’s line even further.

 

“Maege’s girls will be taken care of with Dragon’s Haven,” Jeor continued, “and Maege’s marriage will strengthen your lion’s position in the North. It is time. Besides, you were the one to tell me about the problems with the Night’s Watch.”

 

And problems there were. While the rest of the North moved forward, the Night’s Watch remained stagnant. Lord Commander Qorgyle seemed intent upon the lands north of the Wall, but neglected the Gift and the New Gift. Once fertile lands were claimed by wilderness again as the population dwindled. The daring wildling raids that had become more and more common in the last decades had done their part to scare off any who would want to settle there. After all, if the Night’s Watch did not deem it necessary to protect those under their care, then why should people move there?

 

It was a concern that always remained in Ned’s mind. He had done much already to make the south of his lands safer and both the east and the west of the North were in goods hands. But the Night’s Watch had less than a thousand men, most of those criminals or Southrons who did not understand the Wall’s importance. Often, they attempted to desert, not used to the hard life that awaited them on the Wall. But Ned could not interfere, for the Night’s Watch was its own lord and master.

 

“Perhaps it is a good thing that you go. Too few of our Northern sons join the Watch and they could use every good man up there - and you are one of the best. Lord Commander Qorgyle grows old and he will need a worthy heir.”

 

Jeor smiled and Ned suddenly realized that this had been the Old Bear’s plan all along. It was a relief, truth be told. Ned had confided many of his plans to the Lord of Bear Island and had found in him both a good counselor and stalwart friend. He had good chances of being chosen as Qorgyle’s replacement when the time came, as he was both known and respected in the North. One headache less, then.

 

“How is Dragon’s Haven then, my friend? It has been some time since I had news of it.”

 

“Growing slowly but steadily. It takes years to build a stronghold like we discussed, but it is necessary if we want to have a strong Northern navy.” Jeor frowned then. “A few of my captains have seen some Ironborn ships uncomfortably close to our coast. And I know that the Iron Islands are not interested in those pretty gems of my new good-brother - at least not for themselves - so I doubt that it is trade they are after.”

 

“A scouting force?”

 

“Possible. They do not want to trade, that is certain - but raiding is another question. The gems are easy to transport and bring a high price in the Southron lands. Undoubtedly, they have heard about our newfound wealth and noticed all the trade ships that venture to Deepwood Harbor.”

 

“It would mean rebellion,” Ned concluded, his mind already going through scenarios and analyzing news from the South.

 

Balon Greyjoy had remained carefully neutral during the events of Robert’s Rebellion, not declaring for or against Robert. Since its end, there had been silence but no hostility from the Iron Islands. Still, Balon Greyjoy had the reputation of a ruthless and fearless man, holding to the Old Way, which was a nicer term for reaving and plundering. This made Ned dislike him on principle alone.

 

“We will have to watch this carefully. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” He had been drowned with work in the last few weeks, now that summer appeared on the horizon. “When will you travel to the Wall?”

 

“After the wedding. Lord Tyrion and Ser Brynden will come with me. Neither of them have seen the Wall yet.”

 

“Perhaps it will do some good to show it to them; they might appreciate the Night’s Watch more and tell of it in the South. It could certainly use some new recruits who are not the dregs of Westeros.”

 

“Aye,” Ned agreed, before turning the discussion towards possible improvements in the Gift and New Gift. If Jeor achieved his goal, then Winterfell and the North would stand with him, helping as much as they could.

 

The security of the North was paramount, after all.


	20. Chapter 20

#  Benjen I 

 

“You’re frowning again. It must be a Stark trait. I do hope that at least this one won’t always scowl.” She patted her stomach. “Gods know that Lyan does it enough.”

 

Ben’s frown disappeared as did the tension in his body. He smirked.

 

“It must be the dour Northern air.”

 

“Aye,” she purred, strode over to his chair like a cat and sat astride him, nuzzling his neck. The damn woman was determined to distract him. “Perhaps I can put that lovely, lovely smile on your face, hmmm?”

 

It was a very alluring thought indeed, but he sighed and then rubbed her back lightly in soothing, regular circles.

 

“‘bara...”

 

“Ben...”

 

They looked at each other, she pouted and then relaxed against him. With both relief and disappointment, he leaned back and stared at her.

 

“I love you and Lyan and the little one too,” he said with sufficient gravitas and she frowned.

 

“Now you’re scaring me, Ben.”

 

“Can’t a husband tell his wife of his affection?”

 

Obara snorted.

 

“You Starks make emotional repression into an art form, dearest. You act upon your feelings - you do not tell of them. Not if everything’s alright. So...tell me. What has you so worried?”

 

“Ned sent a letter. Some Ironborn ships were sighted on the west coast. They didn’t attack, but it has people concerned. The likeliest target would be Deepwood Harbor and it is our most important port there.”

 

“Ironborn, eh? The kraken was playing dead fish during the Rebellion and he never harbored any affection for Baratheon - or anyone, for that matter.” Suddenly, she grinned and Ben did groan. He knew his wife well enough by now to know what she was thinking. “Could be fun.” And it was exactly what he feared.

 

“I hope you’re not thinking of fighting while pregnant, ‘bara.”

 

“You just have to stick them with the pointy end, Ben.” She smirked. “Bam - spearfish.”

 

Ben sighed.

 

“‘bara, not while you’re pregnant. And don’t look at me like that - you know it’s too dangerous. Besides, perhaps you’ll have the child before any Ironborn attack - if it comes at all - and then you’ll have your spearsquid.”

 

“Spearfish, you mean.”

 

“Spearfish, then.” In the end, Obara would get what she wanted. She always did. “By the way, have you seen Lyan?” Better to change the subject before she got it into her head to order the smith to make her pregnancy armor, gods forbid.

 

“No, but then again, he’s probably praying at the weirwood. You Northmen are more devout than most Southrons I know.”

 

“Aye.”

 

It was true enough. Northerners did not need septs or septons to hear their prayers. What one shared with the Gods was between each man and them. Ben liked it more that way, finding it truer in a sense. Of the two of them, Ned had always been more pious than he, but in the last few years, Ben had found himself visiting the godswood, contemplating his decisions and finding calm and peace beneath the weirwood branches. He could see the appeal of frequent communion with the Gods. And though Ben visited the godswood quite frequently, it was nothing compared to his little son. As soon as he could walk, Lyan’s little feet inevitably led him to the godswood, where he sat and whispered to the heart tree. When his deputy commander and First Warden, Lord Howland Reed, visited, his children often sought out the godswood too, sitting beside Lyan and playing. No doubt, the three of them were there now.

 

“Let us get him then. It is time for the midday meal and, knowing Lyan, he won’t remember that on his own.”

 

Together, they walked through the halls of Moat Cailin and outside towards the little godswood. Many things had changed since the day it was decided to rebuild this fortress. Before, it was a ruin; now, it was a true stronghold of the North. Visitors coming from the Riverlands marveled at such a compound in the swamps and bogs of the Neck and the Bluecloaks living and training at Moat Cailin looked with pride upon its weirwood banner flying high in the air. It was a visible accomplishment of his brother’s reign; a sign saying that the North was not weak, not some backwater or wasteland, as so many in the South claimed.

 

They reached the godswood quickly. It was a dry patch of ground, not big but not tiny either, and it had been so even before the reconstruction had begun. Sometimes, Ben thought that the Gods must have protected this place from the waters of the Neck, knowing that one day Moat Cailin would stand strong and proud again.

 

“There they are.”

 

And, indeed, little Lyan was sitting next to the heart tree, small fingers tracing the carved face and whispering something to Jojen. Meera sat a few feet away, watching the proceedings like a mother wolf. None of them saw Ben and Obara.

 

“We must talk,” a voice said from behind them. The couple turned. It was Howland Reed and the diminutive crannogman looked more serious than Ben had ever seen him.

 

“Curious. I wanted to do the same. Ned sent a letter with some troubling news.”

 

“Did he? No matter. It can wait.” He looked at the children, frowned, then said, “Your son has the greensight.”

 

“...what?” Ben croaked, heart suddenly hammering in his chest. Lyan had nightmares, sometimes, yes, but the greensight...”Are you sure?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Greensight?” Naturally, she wouldn’t know. Only those who kept to the old ways, prayed to the Old Gods had the ability. It was both blessing and curse. For one so young, it was definitely more of the latter. Lyan, his little, precious boy...

 

“Prophetic dreams, ‘bara.” Ben swallowed. “What does he dream of - do you know?”

 

Howland knew, but they made little Lyan repeat it nevertheless.

 

“I dreamed of a wolf with fur the color of the Dornish desert. He was swept away by a tidal wave of wine and he woke surrounded by shadows and fire.”

 

And Ben remembered the words he had so often heard in his youth: when the cold wind blows the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.

 

Suddenly, his heart grew cold with fear for the family he had dreamed of in his youth, but never imagined to have. He gathered his son in his arms and hugged him tightly.

 


	21. Chapter 21

#  Cersei III 

 

Her daughter was beautiful. Already, Cersei could tell that she had the Lannister looks: golden hair and green eyes. The Lord of Light be praised. The ritual had worked once more and Cersei took a vicious pleasure in the knowledge. No true child of Robert Baratheon would sit on the Iron throne, but a line of Lannisters would bring the true faith to Westeros. It was the only thought that sustained her when faced with her husband’s indiscretions and atrocious behavior. Jaime would never have allowed it. But Jaime was not here and she had not heard anything about him for many years. Was he dead, alive? She didn’t know.

 

It was not yet time to act, Melisandre had said and Cersei had heeded her words. She was the Mother of the Harbinger, but her darling Joffrey was still young - too young - to step up and grasp his destiny. For him, she would endure.

 

“Father,” she greeted when she saw Tywin step into the room. He had just recently arrived from Casterly Rock. “Come and greet your granddaughter Myrcella.”

 

He stopped next to her, staring silently at precious little Myrcella.

 

“A girl,” he said drily, words dripping with disappointment. The silent question of why she had not birthed a second son, a spare so that the line would be secure, echoed chillingly in the room. It had been the reason for Robert’s frequent visits to her rooms; disgusting and horrible visits that left her feeling dirty, even though he had never spilled his seed inside her. Wine and other means had ensured that.

 

“You will give the King a spare next time.” It was not a question but a demand. And there would be a next time. The men whispering in Robert’s ear would make sure of that.

 

“Yes, Father,” she said, taking great care to keep the hate out of her voice. He had taken so much from her: sold her to Robert, sent Jaime away and robbed him of Casterly Rock. Her newest brother, little Tyson, was almost the very image of Jaime but for the blue eyes of the Royce whore. And her father loved him, looked at him with approval and pride. He had never looked at her that way.

 

“Good. See to it.”

 

He walked out, leaving her alone with her daughter.

 

She was not yet strong enough to bear a third child, the maester would confirm that and so buy her time for some weeks. But she would have to act quickly, letting Melisandre know to have the Faithful search for another bastard of Robert’s. They were plentiful enough, so that should pose no problem. It would still be her last attempt at a son. Jaime’s locks of hair were only enough for one more ritual and no more.

 

Cersei gently leaned down, kissing Myrcella’s golden hair and smiling at the squeal of delight.

 

“I will be back, my golden girl.”

 

It was only a short walk to Melisandre’s rooms. Cersei entered and almost felt the tension leave her body. These quarters were warm and airy, filled with sunshine that fell through the tall windows; a sanctuary for those who served the Lord of Light. Faithful bowed to her in reverence as she walked past towards the rooms set aside for her son’s education.

 

Her darling Joffrey sat next to Melisandre, clad in red and smiling. Already, he had the bearing of a prince: chin raised and eyes proud, knowing that he was superior to all others. Good; that was the way it should be.

 

“Mother!” he exclaimed, his back straightening even further as he saw her. “I made my first sacrifice to the Lord of Light - all on my own!” He pointed to the charred remains of what looked like a cat.

 

“He showed me just minutes ago,” Melisandre commented, glancing approvingly at the young prince.

 

“Very well done, Joff.” Cersei sat down beside him, stroking his hair. He was such a good boy. “But remember: your father is not one of the Faithful - he will not understand the great deed that you have done.”

 

Joffrey frowned, crossing his arms in front of him.

 

“Well - he should! The Lord of Light is the only true god - and I am his Harbinger!”

 

“Yes, he should...”

 

“And if he’s a heathen then we’ll just have to burn him too!”

 

Cersei exchanged a look with Melisandre. It would not do to have her darling son say such things in public. He was right, of course, but discretion was necessary at this time.

 

“My prince,” Melisandre soothed, stroking his head. Joffrey leaned into her, sighing. “My prince, the Lord of Light has told me that it is not yet time. Soon, though, you will bring the true faith to these lands. But the Lord of Light requires patience of his Harbinger.”

 

“Fine. If I must.”

 

“And now, my prince, go and pray. Look into the fires and see your destiny.”

 

Joffrey nodded once more and then did as he was told.

 

“You wanted to speak to me, did you not, my queen? I have looked into the fires and have seen that they demand another child of you - a boy.”

 

Sometimes, it amazed Cersei how accurate Melisandre’s predictions often were. But then again - this was the Lord of Light; the one true god and He knew all that would be.

 

“Yes, it is so. We need to do the ritual again. I have some time until Robert comes to my bed, but we must work fast. I also fear that our actions do not go unnoticed.”

 

There had been eyes on her, the last time Ser Eamon had followed her into bed. He had a fine body and was enthusiastic and much more skilled than Robert - which was no difficulty - but he was no Jaime, of course. Still, as the Mother of the Harbinger, Cersei had certain duties and Eamon was one of the Faithful and willing enough to do the rituals.

 

“Do not fear, my queen. The Lord of Light will provide. The eyes on us will soon turn to other matters.”

 

And indeed it was so. Hours later, a raven arrived with the message that the Ironborn had attacked Lannisport and burned the fleet there. Her father was murderous with rage, though Cersei prayed that the Royce whore and her son were killed in the raid. Most likely, they were safe, but one could hope. Balon Greyjoy had proclaimed himself King of the Iron Islands and Robert had called the banners, frothing with fury that someone dared to question his right to the throne. Replies arrived, pledging support. Soon enough, King’s Landing emptied, leaving Cersei behind in blessed solitude. The Faithful were sent out to look for another bastard - a boy, this time, to make doubly sure - and Ser Eamon, thankfully, was left behind, proving to be an ardent follower of R’hllor, much to her pleasure.

 

Several days after Robert had left, another raven arrived, this time from the North.

 

The Ironborn had defeated whatever navy the North had had - Cersei hadn’t even known that there was such a thing - and were now attacking some backwater town named Deepwood Harbor.

 

Cersei just shrugged. Let the North burn - they had taken Jaime from her. Perhaps Greyjoy and Robert might kill each other or at least keep each other busy enough for Cersei to prepare some more in peace and quiet.

 

Time was of the essence.


	22. Chapter 22

#  Jaime V 

 

 

Dark wings, dark words, it was always said and it proved true. The news came one late evening, when Aron knocked loudly on his door, waking both him and Maege. The fleet at Dragon’s Haven was almost completely destroyed or so heavily damaged that they could not fight. But the Ironborn had not landed at Dragon’s Haven, instead continuing to sail unhindered towards Deepwood Harbor.

 

“Dacey...” Maege’s voice trembled as Jaime squeezed her shoulder. Her oldest daughter had been in Dragon’s Haven, overseeing the building of the port and learning how to rule.

 

“She is fine; she tells you so herself.”

 

“Yes...yes, of course. You are right.”

 

And that was all the time they could take to reassure themselves. He had met Dacey and they had liked each other. It had surprised him how much the acceptance of his wife’s family meant to him, but it did mean quite a lot.

 

“Come, we must prepare and ride at first light.” 

 

In the last few weeks, the Dawnguard had been heavily reinforced on the western shore, but Dacey’s message had spoken of a force much larger than had been anticipated; most had thought that the North was too remote to be a priority target. The Bluecloaks would not hold for long. Reinforcements were needed.

 

“Maester Aron, send a message to Winterfell with the news. They might not have gotten the raven from Dragon’s Haven. Tell them that I and my men will ride for Deepwood Harbor to reinforce the troops there. Also, wake the men and alert the Bluecloaks.”

 

“Yes, my lord.” The maester hurried away.

 

“You mean we, surely.”

 

Maege raised an eyebrow, daring him to contradict her.

 

“I know that you want to fight, but...” He put a hand on her stomach where it bulged slightly and caressed it. “...think about our child.”

 

“We northern women are not as fragile as your Southron flowers, Jaime.”

 

“Aye,” he agreed, then gave her a pleading look. “But I cannot help but worry. The maester said that you should not do any overly taxing activities, if at all possible. Fighting Ironborn is taxing.”

 

She looked ready to argue some more and Jaime sighed inwardly. He had known before marrying Maege that this would not be a calm marriage and had not wanted it in any other way. But this was his child, growing inside her, and the indescribable urge to protect it and her had him firmly in its grip.

 

“Perhaps you might ride on to Dragon’s Haven with a contingent of men. If this is not a simple raid and the Ironborn want to permanently take part of the coast or if there is another wave, then they must take Dragon’s Haven too. We have to secure it.”

 

There was a moment of silence. Jaime could see how the lust for battle warred with her good sense. The good sense, and probably his plea, won.

 

“Thank you,” he said and, feeling a wave of love and affection for his wife, gathered her in his arms and kissed her passionately. “For good luck.”

 

“Aye,” she whispered hoarsely, “for good luck.”

 

At first light, Jaime, Maege, his men and the Bluecloaks rode out of Lionsfort, heading fast towards Deepwood Harbor and battle.

 

____________________________________________________________________

 

It took four days of hard riding to reach Deepwood Motte and they were relieved to see it standing, though busy with activity. People looked worried and the streets were crowded, though not all were Northmen. Some had the coloring of Essosi, others Jaime thought he recognized as merchants from the Westerlands. Lord Galbart Glover welcomed them with relief and gratitude.

 

“We evacuated all merchants and civilians to Deepwood Motte and held Deepwood Harbor for as long as we could, but they proved too powerful and the fortifications of Deepwood Harbor are not yet entirely finished. We lost it last night. Since then, small Ironborn raiding parties have tried to press forward to Deepwood Motte, but have failed so far. We are very grateful for your quick response, Lord Lannister.”

 

“Naturally, we came as quickly as we could.” Glover’s words were so sincere and earnest that Jaime was almost taken aback.

 

“Have you heard from Dragon’s Haven?” asked Maege, who would ride on in the morning.

 

Glover shook his head.

 

“No. Nothing. Nothing recent that is. The last message said that they were not attacked - though you probably got that raven as well.”

 

They had and could do little to get more information. Maege would have to see Dragon’s Haven for herself. So they were left to plan and coordinate. The Ironborn could not be allowed to gain a permanent foothold in the North.

 

“Do we know the enemy commander?”

 

“Aye. They fly the golden kraken on black and the man they follow is Rodrik Greyjoy, Balon Greyjoy’s oldest son.”

 

Jaime had never heard of Rodrik Greyjoy, but he had heard enough of his father. If the son was anything like his old man, then things would not be easy.

 

They planned, ate and tried to rest.

 

The night was spent defending from an Ironborn assault. The squids used fire arrows and torches to try and set Deepwood Motte on fire, though squads of people with buckets prevented that tragedy from happening. After the Ironborn were defeated completely, House Glover would have to do something about that. Wood was just too easy to burn, no matter how sturdy. Maege and an escort of men departed at first light towards Dragon’s Haven and Jaime only hoped that the situation there was better than in Deepwood Motte.

 

It took several more days of fighting in skirmishes in the Wolfswood and along the road leading to Deepwood Harbor to push the Ironborn back. Several times, Jaime saw a dark-haired young man in superior heavy armor with the golden Greyjoy kraken on his chest. But Rodrik Greyjoy was always too far away to engage, much to Jaime’s anger.

 

A raven arrived from Winterfell two weeks after Jaime’s arrival in Deepwood Motte. The news was not good. The Riverlands were being attacked. Lannisport had been raided by the Ironborn, the Lannister fleet had been burned. Jaime’s heart clenched at that. He had known those people and, though they were not his anymore, the urge to leave everything and ride to their rescue, to avenge them, was strong. But then he remembered Maege, his unborn child, Dacey and all the others here. Men looked up to him and his presence alone bolstered the troops. They were pushing the Ironborn further and further back. Cries of “Mountain Lion”, “Lion of the North” and “White Lion” could be heard in the streets and on the battlefield.

 

No, his place was here. To leave now would be the height of dishonor and cowardice. And perhaps not meeting his father or the rest of his family in the South would be for the best.

 

Besides, Ned was calling the banners and the Bluecloaks would send some more men this way.

 

He could trust Ned to do his best, even if he was going to fight more out of an obligation and kinship to the Tullys than ardent love for the Lannisters.

 

Jaime would concentrate on the North and let his rage and anger fuel him. The Ironborn would pay.

 

Jaime would make sure of that.


	23. Chapter 23

#  Tywin II 

 

Lannisport lay in ruins. Tywin gritted his teeth, the cold fury that he had felt since the raven had arrived in King’s Landing only growing. Here and there, he could see smoke rising from the fires that had raged in the city only days ago. This was an affront, an insult of the highest order. It was clear that Balon Greyjoy did not fear the roar of the lion, did not fear _him_. Lannisport had been plundered, its people raped or dragged away to become thralls and salt wives, and then burned.

 

“They sailed in just before dawn, when it was still dark but people were less vigilant,” his brother Kevan reported, his face grim. “It all happened quite quickly, not giving us any chance to react. The Fleet was burned and then the Ironborn swept over the city like a putrid tide. The City Watch rallied quickly, but they were overwhelmed by numbers and surprise. I led a sally from Casterly Rock, but by then the Ironborn were firmly entrenched, and it devolved into skirmishes in the city.”

 

Tywin knew the rest. By the time he and the troops from King’s Landing had arrived, the Ironborn had retreated, taking whatever they could and setting fire to the rest for maximum damage. It would take years for the Westerlands and the Lannisters to recover from this debacle.

 

“A Lannister always pays his debts,” he said. The Ironborn would see how foolish it was to anger the Lion. He would see the Rains of Castamere play over the desolate cesspit that was Pyke.

 

Kevan nodded and excused himself while Tywin left to find his king.

 

Robert, as always, was already fully engaged in the activities that Robert did best; namely drinking, feasting and wenching. Tywin had, prudently, made sure to not have his wife anywhere nearby. Ysandra was young enough and beautiful enough for Robert to forget that she was married. He did not need another king yet once again coveting his wife.

 

“Ah, Lord Tywin!” roared Robert and grinned at him, face flushed red with wine. With long-standing practice, Tywin ignored the young maid squirming on Robert’s lap or her state of undress. No doubt, in nine months there would be another Baratheon bastard running around Lannisport.

 

“Your Grace,” Tywin bowed before sitting.

 

“Saw your little son! Mighty fine boy, that!”

 

“I am proud of him, Your Grace.” And he was. He had taken special care to be the one to educate Tyson or - if he was not in Casterly Rock - to have Kevan do so. The boy already showed cunning and a martial talent. Though he was still too young for serious training, Tywin was determined to start the boy early. He would mold him into a worthy heir: ruthless, charming and clever. 

 

All of his children until now were failures. Cersei could not do her duty and produce a spare to make sure that from now on Lannister blood would flow through the kings of Westeros, securing the line, and she also still held tightly to the belief that Jaime would eventually return. It was a hassle to make sure that no news about her brother reached her ears, though it was necessary. She had a tendency to do entirely moronic things when influenced by her emotions. Perhaps it was due to being a woman, though Joanna had never been like that. And Jaime...his oldest son had betrayed him in the worst fashion and was now even successfully strengthening the damned North, all for his delusional sense of honor. The less said about the dwarf, the better. Though the boy was almost sixteen now. It was high time to get him back under his control. Fostering him out had done much to enhance the Lannisters’ standing in the Vale, but it would not do for the boy to get strange ideas about honor and chivalry.

 

“As you should be! He’ll make a good Lord Lannister one day.” Robert nodded firmly, then muttered to himself, so quietly that Tywin almost didn’t hear it, “if my brat was only half as worthy...”

 

Tywin took a swallow of his wine and refrained from comment. His grandson had inherited the Lannister good looks, but he could already see that Joffrey had not inherited the smarts. Polite when the situation demanded it, he was still a whiny, demanding and arrogant little brat. Sometimes, the boy’s eyes burned with malicious fire and Tywin was uncomfortably reminded of Mad King Aerys. No doubt it was the Targaryen blood in the boy.

 

Robert and his knights continued to gorge themselves on the fine food of Casterly Rock for hours, their behavior deteriorating rapidly as wine and bloodlust for what they would do to the Ironborn took hold of them. In the middle of all that, Maester Tymond approached Tywin, discreetly handing him the letter that had arrived by raven. Tywin read it, raising an eyebrow.

 

“It seems that the Ironborn have now assaulted Seagard. Lord Mallister says that they are under command of Euron Greyjoy and that the Ironborn force is a very strong one. Though the defenders have been bolstered by other Riverlander troops, they are still facing an overwhelming force.”

 

They had already known that the Ironborn were raiding along the Riverlander coast. It had been their intention to move north tomorrow to drive them back. An attack on Seagard had been deemed as likely, though nobody had expected it to be this strong.

 

“Damn it - where’s Ned?!” Robert’s face scrunched up in fury, fist banging on the table and rattling the plates.

 

“Perhaps,” Tywin said mildly, “he’s still dealing with that attack on Deepwood Harbor?”

 

“Bullshit! What’s their Dawnguard for if they cannot deal with that Ironborn attack? Ned wrote that he was calling the banners and moving south! He should be at Seagard already!”

 

“Perhaps,” Tywin began, but then made a show of hesitating.

 

“Out with it!”

 

“Your Grace,” Tywin continued, voice carefully pitched, “though it pains me to say it, the only reason I can think of why the North is not yet there is that they do not want to be there.” He waited and almost smiled as Robert’s face grew even redder.

 

“Colluding with the Ironborn, you mean?!”

 

It seemed like the seeds he had planted had flourished even better than he had thought they would.

 

“Mayhaps not collusion, Your Grace,” he paused, “but if they wait at Moat Cailin while we here in the South fight...”

 

“Bleeding us dry and then coming to finish us off!”

 

“Of course, it might be that they were simply delayed somewhere, Your Grace.”

 

“Yes, that must be it.”

 

But Tywin could see the idea fester in Robert’s mind, clouded by honeyed words and poisoned whispers. Soon, he bid them goodnight, leaving the revelry behind.

 

He had some letters to write before they left Casterly Rock on the morrow.


	24. Chapter 24

#  Benjen II 

 

“White Lion! White Lion! White Lion...”

 

“Bluewolf! Bluewolf! Bluewolf...”

 

“Stark! Stark! Stark! Stark...”

 

The chant of the Northmen seemed to make the earth and sky tremble. Around him, the air smelled of vicious fighting and death. The streets of Deepwood Harbor ran red with blood as men, both Ironborn and Northmen, lay dying or dead. With grim satisfaction, Benjen saw that the Northmen were slowly but surely winning.

 

It had cost them much to get this far. Jaime had mustered a valiant defense and had driven the Ironborn back to Deepwood Harbor by the time Benjen got here, but one of the Ironborn fire squads had succeeded in setting part of Deepwood Motte on fire. More than a third of it had been lost to the flames and it had taken days to put out the fire completely. If it had not been for the rain that had come on the second day of the fire, more would have been lost. As it was, the seat of House Glover would never be the same again.

 

Still, with Benjen’s additional men, all commanders of the Northern forces had felt it to be time to take back Deepwood Harbor. So far, it had been a brutal fight. The Ironborn clearly wanted to stay, for this was not one of their typical raids. A foothold in the North would spell disaster for the rest of the land. It could not be allowed to happen.

 

“To me!” Benjen yelled, knowing without turning that his men would follow, and dashed forward to a group of Ironborn who were cutting down anyone who attacked. Steel met steel. The Ironborn was stronger than Benjen, but Benjen was faster. Deflecting his enemy’s blade to the side, he moved in and put all his strength into his thrust. His sword skewered his enemy, who let his own sword fall to the ground. The Ironborn’s lips were bloody as he grinned and whispered on his last breath, “What is dead may never die.”

 

Benjen turned away in disgust and saw that his companions had killed their own opponents, though lost one of their numbers; Jor, a young lad who had been more boy than man in age and who had joined the Bluecloaks partly out of patriotism and partly out of a desire for adventure and opportunity. He would never laugh or dream again. Benjen grimaced, took a breath and then saw the next enemies appear from behind a bend in the street.

 

The fighting continued for many hours and with every one of them his sword arm grew heavier and heavier, his mind duller. Minutes of rest were taken whenever there was no enemy in sight, but even that time was short and fleeting. Faces around him changed; friends and companions who had trained beside him, shared his goals and dreams of a secure North, stared with empty eyes at the sky. New comrades joined him as the Northern forces pushed the Ironborn further and further back, clearing Deepwood Harbor’s streets of enemies in deadly skirmishes. From time to time, Benjen saw Jaime, the man a bulwark of swordsmanship and strength.

 

Things came to a head just as the sun was going down, the sunset reflecting in the waves that smashed against the pier like a moving crimson carpet. He had just killed another man, the Northmen around him finishing off their opponents, when his attention was caught by the duel between Jaime and an Ironborn. The golden kraken flashed in the setting sun and Benjen realized that this was the enemy commander, Rodrik Greyjoy. He had splendid heavy armor and he was not unskilled, his blows strong and fast. But Jaime...Jaime was something else entirely. The golden-haired Lannister was grinning, reminding Benjen of a shark or perhaps, more fittingly, of a lion ready to pounce. His sword flashed from position to position, deflecting, parrying, thrusting, slashing. The Lannister was much better at this than Benjen was or would ever be, probably.

 

The chant of “White Lion” grew louder and louder and Jaime grinned even fiercer. The end, as it was, came quickly. With an elegant twist of his hand, Jaime disarmed the Greyjoy and then, with a fast turn, beheaded him. The Northmen roared in triumph and Benjen managed a tiny, tired smile himself.

 

Deepwood Harbor was theirs; victory was theirs - but at what price? Deepwood Motte partly burned to the ground; Deepwood Harbor looted, its citizens abducted or killed. Only a few longships remained at Deepwood Harbor. Many others had fled with loot and people, and were now beyond their reach. Still, to fight had been the right thing to do - it guaranteed the safety of the rest of the North from the Ironborn, who would have used Deepwood Harbor as a base. Why, then, did Benjen not feel like a victor?

 

Perhaps it was his wife back in Winterfell, who he had been able to persuade to not ride into battle pregnant, or perhaps it were Lyan’s dreams, which had gotten all the more disturbing as time went on. Or perhaps it was Ned, riding south right now on the orders of a king who would murder their nephew if he knew about him. No good ever came of a Stark in the South.

 

Benjen straightened, made himself look less grim than he felt and went over to Jaime, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. The man grinned at Benjen, battle-lust still glowing brightly in his eyes, reached out and squeezed Benjen’s hand in acknowledgement. Cries of “White Lion” and “Bluewolf” echoed all over the city and out over the sea.

 

The Battle of Deepwood Harbor was won.


	25. Chapter 25

#  Eddard V 

 

The bronze bell of the Booming Tower was silent for the first time in days.

 

Ned grimaced. Blood, both his and that of his enemies, caked his face and armor. Some of it had already dried and the skin beneath it was itching fiercely. It was hot today, as warm as on the hottest day of summer in the North, and for just a moment Ned wondered what he was doing here in the South.

 

Like a leaf on the wind, Howland Reed appeared next to him, his movements smooth and fast. He, even more than Ned, looked out of place here. With his small stature and unusual weapons, he was a curiosity to these Southron folk. No doubt some of these summer knights from the Westerlands thought Ned’s people to be barbarians. It would certainly not be the first time this had happened; Ned remembered his fostering in the Vale vividly.

 

“The King awaits you at the keep,” his friend said quietly and Ned waited, knowing that there was more. Howland’s green eyes fastened on him, the gaze foreboding. “Keep your wits about you, my friend. He is not the same man that you knew; much has changed in him.”

 

Though Ned tried not to show it, the warning made something inside him turn to ice. Since leaving Winterfell in the capable hands of his pregnant wife and his good-sister, something had festered in his soul. Ned could not rightly determine what it was. Anticipation? Dread? The last time he had made his way south, three Starks had died. And though Seagard could be considered “almost North” and Robert was no Aerys, thank the Gods, the anxiety did not leave him. 

 

“Thank you, Howland. You will join me?”

 

“Always.”

 

With the loyal crannogman beside him, Ned felt better already. He gave Howland a small nod of appreciation and together they walked down Seagard’s bloodied streets to the keep. Northmen bowed low when they saw them approach, but, bit by bit, familiar Northern features gave way to lighter hair and darker skin, and they were not recognized.

 

How would the meeting with Robert go? They had parted on less than good terms and though all correspondence with the South had been cordial, it was a politeness that spoke of distance and differences. Jon Arryn had been understanding enough, had kept the ties between South and North from fraying further, but would it be enough to resurrect the bond that had been born in the Vale? Ned doubted it. Like the North remembered, so did Ned. The bodies of the Targaryen children and their mother were always in the back of his mind; sometimes, in his dreams, Jon’s broken form joined them. The identity of Jon’s mother wouldn’t save the boy, but only inflame Robert’s fury further, for the Baratheon’s nature was a mercurial one; he could be charming and gregarious one second, and completely unreasonable in the next.

 

They passed the inner gate and into the keep proper. It did not take long to find Robert. On a balcony overlooking the sea and Seagard, he sat at a table, richly covered with Riverlander delicacies. From this height, Seagard seemed peaceful and whole. None who looked down upon it would see the corpses in the streets or the blood. Only in the distance, by the harbor, one could see smoke rising from time to time.

 

Ned suppressed the surprise he felt. Tywin Lannister, he had expected. The old lion sat to Robert’s right, eyes watching everything shrewdly. That such a viper had Robert’s ear was disconcerting but nothing new. No doubt the services he had provided at the end of the Rebellion had been richly rewarded. How such a good man as Jaime had been begotten by such a twisted man, Ned could not fathom. There were some other Southron knights there - Ned knew none of them - and Jason Mallister, naturally, but there was one face that was familiar. There, sitting to Robert’s left, was Jorah Mormont, the Old Bear’s son.

 

It had been good fortune that Jorah and several of his men had been in Winterfell when the raven from the South had arrived. Though the new Lord of Bear Island had been preparing to ride north and help in Deepwood Harbor, Ned had asked him to come south. It had been a good decision. Jeor’s son was as skilled as his father with a blade. Perhaps battle would distract the man from the death of his wife, but what was he doing here? Besides looking uncomfortable but slightly pleased, that is.

 

“Your Grace,” Ned bowed to his king and saw Howland following suit.

 

“Ned!” Robert opened his arms wide in welcome. There was a smile on his face, though Ned noticed that it was strained. The king looked much like the man Ned remembered him as, though perhaps a few stone heavier than some years ago. Robert had always been a very active man. Perhaps the throne was not to his taste; ruling and battle were different things, after all. Still, the king’s voice was strong and clear, unclouded by heavy drink or fury. For now. “Come, sit. Now that you are finally here, we can get to bashing some Ironborn skulls in!”

 

Hearing the rebuke, Ned hastened to explain.

 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, we were held up at the Twins.” Deliberately stopped from crossing. There had been a myriad of excuses, ranging from problems with the gate to suspicion of bandits. The advanced host under command of Howland Reed would have arrived at Seagard days earlier had Lord Frey not made problems. The old man was clever enough to not attempt outright extortion, but it had taken Ned subtly threatening him with Robert to let the Northern host cross. They had lost several days that way and Seagard had lost lives. Ned would not forget that any time soon.

 

“Held up?” a man at the table sneered.

 

“Peace, Ser Ryman,” Lord Lannister smoothly interjected. “Lord Stark was not implying anything about your family, surely.”

 

Which made everyone automatically think that Ned was indeed implying something. Bastard, Ned thought, making sure that his face reflected none of his feelings. This, this was the reason why he absolutely hated the South. He had not even had a drink yet and he was already knee-deep in politics. The suspicious presence of a Frey did not escape his notice either.

 

“Technical problems Lord Frey said. It was fortuitous that they were fixed in time.”

 

The Northern host had arrived at the same time as Robert, overwhelming the Ironborn quickly and strengthening the Seagard defenders.

 

“Fortuitous indeed, heh. At least you arrived in time to deliver me this brave man.” Robert clasped Jorah on the shoulder, suddenly smiling genuinely. “Ah, and here it is!”

 

A servant set a tray down in the middle of the table and Ned had to keep from jerking back at the sight, instead remaining completely still, face unmoving. There were gasps around him, though Ned could not see whether they were ones of delight or horror. He, himself, found the sight ghastly.

 

It was a man’s head, presented much like a roasted pig would be. Dead black eyes stared into space, permanently frozen in shock. Beneath the prominent nose the mouth was open, stuffed with an apple. The long black hair and beard were woven into a multitude of braids, artfully arranged around the head.

 

“I hope we don’t have to eat that!” The bad joke came from somewhere down the table and there were nervous snickers all around. Ned just felt sick. Next to him, Howland just stared ahead grimly.

 

Robert roared with laughter, then grinned.

 

“No! This, my friends, is the commander of the squids: Aeron Greyjoy! Slain in single combat by our friend here, Jorah Mormont!” Which explained Jorah’s presence. The man looked somewhat green at the head of the man he had killed, but pleased at the king’s praise. “This calls for recognition of a great deed done!” Robert stood and unsheathed his sword. “Jorah Mormont, come forward!”

 

Jorah, eyes disbelieving, probably knowing what was to come, did.

 

“Now, kneel.”

 

Jorah knelt.

 

“Jorah of House Mormont, you have distinguished yourself in battle, slaying Aeron Greyjoy and bringing much honor to your House. In recognition of your deeds, I, King Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, dub thee a knight of Westeros.” He tapped both of Jorah’s shoulders with his sword. “May you uphold the knightly values and the laws of the realm. In the name of the Gods, I charge you to be brave, just and defend the innocent. And now rise, Ser Jorah!”

 

There was applause and some envious looks. Being knighted by the King’s hand was a great honor and Ned was proud of the young lord for distinguishing himself. Robert gifted the new knight a tidy sum of gold and the weapon of his fallen enemy, a fine-looking sword of good quality.

 

Thus, the feasting began in earnest. The food was good and Ned forced himself to eat something. He had not eaten in hours, though he had not much of an appetite. Aeron Greyjoy made sure of that.

 

Still, the atmosphere was jolly and Ned almost saw the old Robert at the forefront again. They spoke of their families, of Jon Arryn, their work as lord and king respectively, and it almost seemed as if they were falling back into their old friendship. Then came the remark and Ned swallowed a cold lump of dread in his throat.

 

“I’ll have every Greyjoy’s head served up to me just like this!” Robert grinned fiercely.

 

“I hear the youngest son is ten,” Ned said quietly, mind flashing back to the Red Keep and broken bodies on the floor. It was happening again. All over again.

 

“Don’t give me that! They are in rebellion against me! Not recognizing my authority! I will see them all dead!”

 

His old friend Robert disappeared and the madman from the end of the Rebellion stared back at him.

 

“There is always the Night’s Watch.”

 

“Night’s Watch,” snorted Robert. “I will have them dead - and that’s final.”

 

There was an uncomfortable silence, then Ned nodded.

 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

 

As Lord Mallister moved the conversation into safer waters, Ned remembered Howland’s warning. No, Robert was not the same. Or perhaps he was exactly the same.

 

Aeron Greyjoy’s eyes stared at him the whole evening long and his dreams were filled with Jon’s head on a plate in front of Robert, Lyanna’s eyes cold and dead in his nephew’s - _son’s -_ face.


	26. Chapter 26

#  Stannis I 

 

The ship swayed from one end to the other as it glided through the waves, ever forward. Around him, sailors raced and climbed, tightening ropes and generally keeping the _Stormwind_ in good condition. Rain was coming. Stannis could taste it in the air, could see it in the clouds and found it fitting both for his mood and the battle that would come.

 

There had not been a single word of praise. Not one. He, _he,_ had smashed the Iron Fleet at Fair Isle, had made an assault on the Iron Islands themselves possible. His plan, his strategic brilliance; because, by the Gods - if they existed - he was the Master of Ships and he would be the best, most competent Master of Ships there was or would ever be. He would not only do his duty, but he would do it well; anything else was unacceptable. The Battle at Fair Isle had been his triumph - and it had been taken from him.

 

The bitter feeling of betrayal, of a deliberate slight, hovered heavily in the air around him. True, it was Lord Lomas Estermont, Stannis’ cousin, who had captured Victarion Greyjoy; but it had been Stannis’ strategy that made the capture possible at all. And where had Robert heaped the accolades? Not his way, of course. He had only heard accusations, for it had been his word and decision to allow Victarion Greyjoy to take the Black. A decision made for Robert’s safety and throne.

 

It seemed no matter what, Stannis would always be entangled in the tight ropes of duty; he only hoped they would not strangle him.

 

His thoughts went back to the conversation he had had with Jon Arryn and the frown on his face deepened.

 

_Robert’s fury is a terrible thing_ , the man had said, as if Stannis didn’t know that for himself, _and it might overcome his good traits of character. Stannis, my friend, the people love your brother because he is merciful; they want a kind and noble king - not a second Aerys. You must ensure that he will be that. I fear for the stability of the realm otherwise._

 

But how could he? Stannis knew that he himself was many things; kind was not one of them. He was himself just and fair and the people under his rule knew what they had in him. But he was not loved by them; not like Renly or Robert. And neither of his brothers listened to him. Jon Arryn’s influence and actions had made the relationship between Robert and him better, but Robert still listened to others more. One of those people, Jon Arryn, was not here to talk sense into Robert. The other, about whom he had heard so much, Eddard Stark, was polite to a fault, but radiating stoic disapproval at the same time.

 

Stannis had seen the head, had seen the apple and had been disgusted. The death had been deserved. It had not been necessary to make a spectacle out of it. This one act had already turned many against Robert, if not wholly then partly, at least.

 

The fact that Eddard Stark was no longer the brother Robert had always longed for had given Stannis a jolt of vicious pleasure. But that soon turned to worry. With relationships fraying further, Jon Arryn’s words rang truer than ever before.

 

He had cautioned Robert against killing all Greyjoys, had argued against it. Would his brother listen, though? With Tywin Lannister whispering in Robert’s ear, with Robert’s fury not abating...Stannis wasn’t sure, and that worried him more than he could admit to.

 

“Land! Land! It’s Great Wyk!” above him a sailor cried and Stannis squinted. Indeed, there in the distance was land, if one could call it that. Mighty waves crashed upon a stony shore, rocks jutting out of the water. It was a dark, dreary place, with few trees and winds that cut a man like thousands of little blades. It reminded Stannis of Dragonstone.

 

But Dragonstone, though unwanted by him at first, was his, filled with his people; Maester Cressen who always had a wise and kind word for him; his dear Gwynneth, with her flaming hair and hands that caressed; Cassana, who smiled and laughed at him with her Baratheon hair and eyes...

 

Great Wyk only held enemies; enemies that he had a duty to subdue.

 

His frown grew and the hand on his sword tightened. Above him, it began to rain.

 

___________________________________________________________________________

 

 

Two weeks later, the rebellion was over. Great Wyk had been fairly easy to conquer. Many of the Ironborn men had died either on raids or at the Battle of Fair Isle, and though there were nests of fierce resistance on the island, that was overcome too. Stannis had done his duty well, he felt; methodically, thoroughly and completely. Mercy had been granted where it was deserved and enemies captured or slain. The Night’s Watch would get many new recruits in the coming weeks.

 

As Stannis sailed into Lordsport, he could see that Robert had been thorough too - in his way. The port was completely razed to the ground. Here and there, smoke drifted into the air, though nothing burned, probably because of the heavy rain the last few days. The streets were bloodied, filled with rubble and the dead. Children, women, men; war spared no one.

 

Stannis made his way up to the castle of Pyke, Davos beside him and ears open for news and rumors. And what rumors there were! Pyke had been the last of the Iron Islands to fall. Harlaw had surrendered outright to Ned Stark without a single life lost. Even here, in this island wasteland, it seemed that the honor and word of Ned Stark held sway. Stannis would be lying if he had said that he didn’t envy this ability. Nobody held his honor that highly. Alannys Harlaw had been found there, but her youngest children were gone and nobody could, or would, tell where. Robert, apparently, had raged and shouted when he had heard the news, but it was for naught. Theon and Asha Greyjoy remained missing. Only one Greyjoy remained alive: Maron Greyjoy, the second-born of Balon Greyjoy, and now one-armed, if he survived the fever.

 

“Well, what shall be done with the Iron Islands then?” a lord from further down the hall asked an hour later, when all had been assembled.

 

It was a fair question, thought Stannis and eyed Balon Greyjoy’s severed head, staring at them all from the top of a pike. Here they were, “greenlanders”, as the Ironborn liked to call them, in the Great Keep of Pyke deciding the future of the islands, all under the dead eyes of its self-styled king. At least this time there was no apple.

 

He turned to Robert, who was lounging on the Seastone Chair, clad in shining armor, warhammer leaning on the throne. His eyes were bright and not clouded by drink.

 

“I have made my decision,” he announced, voice strong and inviting no opposition. For once, he truly looked like a king and Stannis understood why so many followed him. If he were only like this always...it was a nice dream, if a futile one. “Maron Greyjoy shall reside at Casterly Rock and enjoy the hospitality of Lord Lannister.” Robert nodded to Lannister, who bowed, eyes looking pleased. Of course he was pleased! To have so much power in his hands...Stannis frowned. “When Lydia Estermont is old enough, the two shall be wed. Their son will rule over the Iron Islands. Until that point, Lord Lomas Estermont, Lady Lydia’s father, will do so in his grandson’s stead.”

 

There were nods of approval all around, as the various lords thought about the implications. Stannis himself was relieved that Robert didn’t attempt to saddle him with another desolate island to govern. One was quite enough. Though the plan itself spoke of forethought and cunning not normally seen in his brother. Had this been truly Robert’s idea? He somehow doubted it, but what was done was done. Perhaps Robert was finally settling down into his role of king.

 

That notion was severely shaken that evening, at the victory feast. The food was plentiful, as was the wine. Stannis was sitting next to Lord Estermont, who was sitting on Robert’s right. Another slight. Across from him was Ned Stark; solemn, entirely sober and speaking only infrequently. If Stannis had not disliked the man on principle alone, he might have liked him even. Jon Arryn had once said to him that he and the Lord of Winterfell would have gotten along splendidly, had they only had the opportunity to meet. As it was, Stannis found the man’s company more bearable than that of the other lords.

 

“Ned,” said Robert suddenly, clear eyes focusing on the Stark, “I feel it’s time to strengthen the bonds of House Baratheon and House Stark. A Stark lad to foster in the Red Keep - it’s a splendid idea, don’t you think?”

 

Ned Stark had frozen, his face inscrutable. He looked like an icicle in winter: poised and sharp.

 

“Pardon me, Your Grace, but Robb is my heir and should know the lands he will rule one day.”

 

It was a perfectly valid excuse. Nobody would give away their heir to be fostered, so which Stark did Robert mean? Ned Stark had a bastard, Stannis knew, but bastards were not fostered. That would be too radical, even for Robert.

 

“I didn’t mean your eldest.” Robert waved nonchalantly. “I will have your brother’s son, Lyan Stark, in King’s Landing. And such a good name it is! He’ll grow up a fine lad, don’t worry, together with my own children. Why, it will be like back in the Vale!”

 

Stark’s eyes focused on Robert.

 

“The boy is only five, Your Grace; too young to be torn from his mother and family, surely.”

 

“Nonsense.” Robert waved the protest away again. Stannis noted that this end of the table had fallen silent. “She and the rest of your family will be able to visit him, if they so wish. I expect Lyan Stark to arrive early next year in King’s Landing.”

 

There was silence. Robert’s and the Stark’s eyes met, held. Something passed between them. For a moment, Stannis thought that Stark would attack his brother, but then the Lord of Winterfell calmly took a sip from his cup, put it down again and nodded.

 

“Very well, Your Grace.” The tone was perfectly polite, but it was also emotionless, as cold as the Northern snows were said to be.

 

Either Robert had just secured himself a stable Westeros or plunged it into a civil war.

 

In any case, it was clear that the relationship between the two men, who had considered each other brothers before, was irreparably broken forever. Only time would tell what consequences this would bring.

 


	27. Chapter 27

#  Cersei IV 

 

“I cannot see your other half, my Queen,” Melisandre had confessed to her before they had departed King’s Landing for Casterly Rock. “He is cast in shadow, hidden even from my flames.”

 

Was that why she had felt more and more distanced from Jaime? Her body yearned for his touch; she desired to see him smile at her, eyes glittering with mischief and laughter. Was he forever lost to her? Was he dead? The news that the North had come to aid Robert had made doubts and fears fester in her, for surely even such uncouth barbarians would recognize Jaime’s worth on the battlefield and send him to fight the Ironborn. But Jaime was good; none were better at the arts of war and Cersei was certain that he would survive whatever he faced. But that Melisandre could not see him in her flames...it was worrying. Beyond worrying even.

 

When the raven came that Robert had won and that there would be a tourney in celebration at Lannisport, she had not hesitated to pack and be on their way. Jaime would be there; he could be nowhere else, as he would not lose an opportunity to see her again, even if from a distance. Jaime, in his shining golden armor, would win the tourney and crown her his Queen of Love and Beauty - and nobody would be able to interfere. Not her father. Not Robert.

 

Perhaps, yes, perhaps he would even be physically there for the conception of their third child. The preparations had already been completed. Robert’s spawn - some young blacksmith apprentice - had been given to R’hllor. The potion was ready to be drunk and had she not received the news about the tourney, she would have waited until Robert was back in King’s Landing. Even now, Ser Eamon was accompanying her, ready to serve at a moment’s notice. But with Jaime there...

 

She smiled.

 

“You are smiling, Mother,” Joffrey remarked and her smile widened, hand gliding through his golden locks.

 

“I am happy to be home, my darling.”

 

“I smell smoke.” He grinned, as he always did when the topic of fire came up. Joffrey was such a diligent child. “Is that Lannisport?”

 

“Yes. You remember that I told you the Ironborn set the city on fire?”

 

Joffrey nodded quickly, eyes widening in excitement.

 

“We shall soon see it.”

 

And, indeed, they saw it. It had the look of a city sacked, but already her father’s orders had the smallfolk scurrying about, tidying up the rubble and rebuilding. They had yet much to do, no doubt getting lazy without her father’s supervision, but at least they had the stands for the tourney up and ready. She could see the colorful banners of various Westerosi houses flying high in the sky. And above it all, throning majestically, was Casterly Rock.

 

“That is where all Lannisters were born. We are lions, Joff - lions bow to no one. Remember that.”

 

“No one,” he whispered and nodded.

 

Pleased, she leaned back and enjoyed the familiar sights. This was home; more home than King’s Landing had ever been. Though it had given her a crown and power, Casterly Rock and Lannisport held precious memories for her. She remembered riding with Jaime; laughing in the sun; their first, tentative kiss in the sunlight; the first time they made love on a bright, warm day...

 

Her love for Jaime had never burned brighter and she thought it appropriate that their third child would be conceived here.

 

Their arrival at Casterly Rock was cold and polite. Her father and his new family greeted them and when Jon Arryn had disappeared along with that Royce whore and the spawn, she dared ask him.

 

“Where is Jai-”

 

The look her father gave her made the words stop, unfinished. Silently, he turned and left.

 

There was no sign of Jaime anywhere in the Rock. Nobody had seen him and nobody had heard of him arriving. Was he not there? And she had been so certain...The prospect of doing the ritual with Ser Eamon soured her mood somewhat. The only consolation was that she was not alone in that. Stannis, as dour and stiff as always, became only more so in the company of Jon Arryn. Robert, not as euphoric as she had expected him to be, appeared in her bedchambers drunk and furious that night, and, as she usually did, she took care of him in the most efficient and least disgusting way possible. The ritual could now be done without arousing suspicions, and the tempting thought of cutting off Robert’s manhood was tempered by the lack of anything sharp available. It was sweet nonetheless.

 

The tourney proved diverting for everyone. But the joust, especially, was exciting for Joffrey, who watched, enraptured, as blood flew and knights were knocked from their horses.

 

“Who is that knight?”

 

“Ser Jorah Mormont.” Her father eyed her, then snorted, his lips curling up into a malicious smirk. “Family, of a sort. Your darling brother’s brother-in-law.”

 

Her fingers gripped the fabric of her gown tightly, knuckles almost white, while her heart sped up. No, surely not...

 

“Tyrion has gotten married?” She raised an eyebrow, challenging.

 

“Your other, worthless brother.” Her father paused, eyes taking in her form, and she knew that he found her wanting. Again. Bastard. “He found himself some Northern harlot and put a child in her.”

 

Cersei watched her father, looking for just a single hint of a lie and found none. And then she knew that her father had spoken truly.

 

She turned away, face as calm and still as stone, her eyes on the knights, but her thoughts on Jaime. This was the reason then why he wasn’t here. He had forgotten her; forgotten her and set her aside for some whore in the North. Cersei felt numb, almost as if she was bleeding out all of her emotions. Even the burning anger that flared up so often when she was wronged was not there. It was silent.

 

That night, in the arms of Ser Eamon, feeling his lips on hers, his hands on her body, hearing the chanting of Melisandre in the air, she tried to remember the love she felt for her other half, the bright sunshine that was Jaime. Only an echo of feeling answered her and even the flames of R’hllor could not soothe the coldness inside or chase away the shadows.


	28. Chapter 28

#  Eddard VI 

 

The ride to Winterfell seemed to be over far too quickly. As the hills and mountain ranges of the Westerlands gave way to the rivers of the Riverlands and, finally, the swamps of the Neck and then the dark forests and summer snows of the North, Ned thought and doubted and wondered. His bannermen sensed his disquiet and left him in peace. Howland, bless him, rode beside him all the way and did not veer off to Greywater Watch. Silently, the crannogman gave his support and Ned was grateful.

 

It did not help him make a decision, though.

 

Now, staring at the tall walls and turrets of Winterfell, he still had no answer and no decision. Coming home should have been joyful, a feeling of relief that the war was over and peace had finally arrived. Instead, Ned only dreaded it.

 

No Stark ever had any luck in the South. The last time, Ned had returned with the bodies of three beloved to him. This time, he returned with an ultimatum, given to him by his oldest friend who was friend no longer. What had happened to Robert? How could his friend have changed so much? Or had he not changed at all and Ned just saw more clearly than he ever had before? Did Robert not understand what he was asking? To send Lyan, a Stark, to the Red Keep, the place where Ned’s father and brother had died, where children had been murdered...

 

Cheers rang through the air as the Stark host rode into Winterfell. Ned looked at the people, saw their happy faces and wondered if his actions would wipe those smiles away, would plunge his lands back into war.

 

“My friend,” Howland’s voice spoke softly. Ned turned and saw him nodding, gaze fixed forward. There stood his entire family. The children had smiles on their faces. Obara was showing already and next to her stood Benjen, tall and proud. He was a man now; a good man and a better brother. The dread in Ned’s heart intensified. And then there was Cat, beautiful and shining and with a bundle in her arms. He had missed the birth - again.

 

“Winterfell is yours, my lord,” his wife told him after they had dismounted.

 

“I thank you, my lady. And this is...”

 

“Your new daughter, my lord. Arya.”

 

“Arya,” he whispered reverently, as he took the newest Stark into his arms. She looked like him. Their eyes locked, she scrunched up her tiny face and then let loose a loud cry.

 

“She’s been an active little thing,” Obara grinned. “Hardly let poor Lady Catelyn sleep at all.”

 

“It’s true, my lord. Our daughter is quite spirited.”

 

“Aye, it’s the wolfblood, no doubt.” Ned’s lips quirked in an almost smile, his thoughts turning towards lighter things.

 

The formality seemed to disappear then and greetings were exchanged. The children crowded around him, hugging and talking a mile a minute. Everybody was smiling and guest right was extended to the lords present. Cat, as efficient as usually, had already had a feast prepared. Refreshed and in a new doublet, Ned presided over it, letting the boisterous laughter and good mood wash away the dark clouds hovering over him.

 

“Jaime is still in Dragon’s Haven with Lady Maege, tidying up there and watching over the repairs,” Benjen told him over the main course of roasted deer. “We have been hit hard and rebuilding what we have lost will take time. Especially at Deepwood Harbor and Deepwood Motte. But trade will soon begin to flow in again and with that the money.”

 

“Do you think the west coast could withstand a second assault right now?”

 

His brother gave him a surprised look before shaking his head.

 

“Right now? No. Well, not without heavy losses. The Dawnguard has been hit hard. Apart from small Wildling raids, this has been our first true battle. My men have fought admirably, but it will take time to replenish our numbers. We are not so weak as to not hold off any Wildling raids; though, admittedly, the Wildlings have been growing bolder as of late.”

 

“I see.” Ned nodded.

 

“Is something wrong? Ned?”

 

“It is nothing, Benjen,” he answered, then paused before frowning. “We will have to talk later.”

 

“Ned?”

 

“Later, Benjen.”

 

His brother turned away with a nod.

 

Suddenly, Ned felt an almost overwhelming urge to be anywhere but here. As soon as it was polite, he excused himself. His feet, as so often in troubled times, led him to the godswood. With a sigh, he settled himself against the weirwood, eyes turned up to look at the red leaves and thoughts in turmoil.

 

What was he to do? Robert had asked to foster Lyan, but to everyone who had eyes and ears it was clear that his nephew was to be a hostage. Was Ned prepared to go against his king, the king he had bent his knee to, whom he had called friend once upon a time? Everyone always called him Honorable Ned Stark, who always did the right thing. They thought him solemn and kind and reasonable. But they forgot that he, too, had the wolfblood in him. It was not roused as quickly as it had with Brandon or Lyanna, but it was still there, beneath the surface, waiting.

 

Robert was not the same man he had known in his childhood. More and more, he seemed to turn into a second Aerys. And when it came to choose between a member of his family and Robert, then there was no choice at all. Lyan clearly was the priority. His safety was paramount. He had done no less for Jon; he would do no less for Lyan.

 

But could the North afford secession? Had the question been asked before the Greyjoy Rebellion, he would have said yes without hesitation. Now? The North was strong, but it still had weak points. The west coast was one. Robert had a strong navy which could transport his troops and land them there, disregarding Moat Cailin entirely. He had once upon a time envisioned the North as a fortress, but a fortress with one of its walls partly crumbling was not impregnable. Possible to hold, yes, but not impossible to conquer. Winter was barely over. The supplies consumed were not yet replenished and would not be for some time. Time. Time was his greatest enemy now. If Robert had demanded Lyan in two, three years, then things would have been different. Now? Trade would be disrupted. From reports, the Wildlings were growing bolder. 

 

If there was war now, who would be arrayed against him? Jon’s honor would demand him to follow his king in this. Tywin Lannister would only be all too glad to see House Stark suffer. The Crownlands and the Stormlands would march behind Robert. The Reach...if Robert promised his boy to Mace Tyrell’s daughter, he would gain the Reach too. Hoster Tully might throw in with Ned, or he might remain neutral. The Riverlands, after all, were not as easy to defend and would suffer deeply in any war. Only Dorne remained and Ned was fairly sure that they would be on his side. But what could Dorne do? It was too far away to send direct help to the North. It could keep a part of the Reach’s forces occupied, but Dorne had too few men to run anything other than a defensive war.

 

“There you are, Ned.”

 

Ned looked up and saw Benjen approaching, a letter in his hands. He was smiling awkwardly.

 

“Benjen,” he said and shifted uncomfortably.

 

“A letter arrived for you from Jon Arryn.”

 

In the dim afternoon light, the letter read:

 

_Ned,_

 

_I know that Robert’s offer must have surprised you. Still, consider the merits of such a proposal. With Lyan fostering in King’s Landing, the bonds between Baratheons and Starks will strengthen once more. Your nephew will want for nothing. Apart from the crown prince, my own son, Jasper, will be available as a companion to Lyan. I will look after him as if he were my own and provide for him just as I did for you once upon a time. You have my word on that as Lord of House Arryn._

 

_Due to his young age, it was thought that a small retinue should accompany young Lyan, so that he might learn the customs of the North and have some familiar faces to facilitate the transition._

 

_Please, do not take too long to consider. It is a great honor._

 

_With deepest regards,_

 

_Jon Arryn_

 

Damage control. That was what this was, Ned thought, his hand gripping the parchment so tightly that it wrinkled.

 

“Bad news?”

 

For a moment, Ned stared at Benjen. His brother had been so happy to see him again, was about to become a father once more, and here he was contemplating sending Lyan to that viper’s nest. Jon Arryn’s assurances had made that possibility at least palatable, if not pleasant.

 

Wordlessly, he offered up the letter and looked on as Benjen read. His brother’s pale face whitened even further and his body began to shake.

 

“You will refuse.”

 

Benjen looked up, searched his face, before his nostrils flared and eyes grew wide.

 

“No! Ned! You cannot think of agreeing to this!”

 

“Ben...” He stood up, reaching, but his brother stumbled back, almost tumbling into the pond, before straightening again.

 

“You cannot think of allowing this!” Benjen’s voice was growing hysterical. “Don’t you remember what happened to Father? To Brandon? And now you want to send my son - my son! - to that place! To the Red Keep, where Starks died!”

 

“Ben, I didn’t say...”

 

“You didn’t have to! I know you, Ned! I know you! You were thinking about it! Truly considering it!” He grew louder. “All of this - all of this because of Jon! You did all of this to safeguard him and now you will sacrifice your other nephew for your first one! You always loved Lya more than me! Is this my punishment? First you did not let me join the Night’s Watch and now you’re taking my son away from me!”

 

Perhaps it was all the events combined, perhaps just the accusation from his own brother. Whatever it was, the punch flew, connected and Benjen sprawled on the ground, silent.

 

“Don’t ever tell me that I would sacrifice my family for anyone. I love Jon as if he were my own, true, but Lyan is my nephew. I will be damned before another Stark dies in the Red Keep.”

 

Their eyes met in a bitter stare and held, before, suddenly, a young voice interrupted them.

 

“I will go there. I have seen it.”

 

Both brothers’ heads whirled around, coming to rest on Lyan. Lyan, who looked too serious and knowledgable for a five years old boy. Lyan, who was standing beside both their wives. How much had they heard? From the wide eyes of Obara and the pale face of Cat, he surmised that they had heard enough.

 

“Jon...is not your son?!” Cat asked, voice trembling.

 

They had heard everything.


	29. Chapter 29

#  Catelyn V 

Her question settled around them, filling the air with silence and tension. Was it true? It was inconceivable, but here, now, standing in Winterfell’s godswood, where the last rays of sunlight illuminated the treetops, their leaves dancing in the wind like a sea of colored flames, and where the carved face of Ned’s gods stared at them, seemingly all-seeing, Cat saw her husband’s face and knew it to be the truth. Didn’t the Northmen say that you couldn’t lie in front of a weirwood?

 

The bastard...Jon wasn’t his son.

 

A weight she had carried around since almost the beginning of her marriage was suddenly lifted. Jon wasn’t Ned’s son. Ned hadn’t betrayed their marriage vows, hadn’t given himself to another woman. But...if he wasn’t Ned’s son, then whose son was he? Jon’s Stark features were undeniable...perhaps, Brandon? There had been rumors, even at Riverrun...She opened her mouth to ask about this new kind of betrayal - and it was a betrayal, just not the one she had lived with for years - knowing that here, before his gods, he would not deny her, when another voice beat her to it.

 

“What do you mean - Lyan is to go to the Red Keep?!” Obara sounded shaken, her hand clutching her bulging stomach protectively. She looked ready to collapse, thought Cat and stepped closer to her good-sister, ready to steady her.

 

Both Stark brothers grimaced, though Benjen’s seemed to be more desperate than anything else. Ned just looked resolute. It was how he had looked when he had brought Jon to Winterfell. Cat knew her husband well; he had decided on something and chances were that they wouldn’t like that decision.

 

“Obara...” Benjen began, but then Lyan interrupted them.

 

“I will go to the Red Keep, Mother.” The boy leaned against the white bark of the weirwood, face solemn and eyes far away. He looked like a little Ned, like an adult trapped in the body of a child. “I have seen it in my dreams. I must go there.”

 

“What have you seen, Lyan?” Ned kneeled in front of the boy. Stark looked at Stark and Cat felt like an intruder.

 

“I have seen what will happen if I do not go, Uncle. I have seen the North being swallowed - by darkness, by flames, by cold. Winter is coming and we have to prepare.”

 

“Your dreams...” whispered Benjen, hands balled into fists, his shoulders slumped forward.

 

Ned stood up, face inscrutable, his stance that of a lord’s. He looked at each of them, then, before slowly nodding.

 

“Come. Let us discuss this in my solar. There are things we must talk about - and decisions to be made.”

 

“But Uncle...I must go!” For perhaps the first time, Lyan sounded his age. Ned’s face softened as he ruffled his nephew’s hair before picking him up and giving him to his father, who clutched him as if to never let go.

 

“I have not forgotten your words; they will be considered. But this is no conversation for a child.”

 

“But...yes, Uncle.”

 

Silently, their group made their way back into the castle. Ned walked in front, alone, stride sure. Benjen, Obara and Lyan huddled together in the middle, and Cat trailed behind them, her mind busy running through scenarios. Lyan was to go to the Red Keep - for what? Fostering? He was too young. Something had to have happened during the Ironborn Rebellion. It was worrying and probably more important than anything else right now. Still, her mind couldn’t help but focus on the other revelation she had heard. Jon wasn’t Ned’s son. That thought seemed so ludicrous...it had been a truth that had been unquestionable in her mind. She was Catelyn Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and her husband had a bastard. That was how the world was - and to have that suddenly shift so radically...

 

On the way to the solar, they met no one, though they could hear laughter and song in the air. No doubt some of their guests were still continuing the celebration, drunk on glory and wine. They paused for a few minutes, letting Obara put little Lyan to bed, before continuing upwards.

 

A shadow detached itself from the wall and Cat jumped, heart racing wildly.

 

“Howland,” Ned greeted the small crannogman. The man looked at each of them and, not for the first time, Cat felt those strange eyes penetrate deeper than should be possible.

 

“My friend.”

 

“I will need your help with some explanations.”

 

The crannogman paused, then nodded.

 

“I see.”

 

With that one addition, they continued on.

 

Like always, the solar brought a sense of security to Cat. The fire in the fireplace crackled merrily, its light falling warmly on the tapestries and ancient woodwork, depicting direwolves and other mystical creatures of the North. The walls emanated warmth and through the windows Cat could see the moonlight beginning to fall on the trees of the Wolfswood, bathing them in silvery shadows, with the Kingsroad disappearing in the hills to the south. A servant was called to bring refreshments and, after that was done, they were finally alone.

 

There was silence once more as they all sat around the fireplace; Benjen and Obara together, Howland Reed in the shadows behind Ned and she alone. 

 

Ned coughed, drank a bit of the hot wine and sighed.

 

“Perhaps,” he began, “perhaps we should start with Lyan.” And so he and Howland told them; the actions of their king, the distrust shown to Northmen, the offer that was more command than anything else, and Jon Arryn’s letter.

 

“Have you forgotten,” spat Obara after hearing it all, “what happened to the last Martell in the Red Keep? Your brother and father? Let that usurping bastard come here, if he dares! Let him come and despair at Moat Cailin’s walls! I’ll show him what a Dornishwoman can do when she has a weapon! He will not find defenseless women and children to slaughter again.”

 

“You speak of treason.”

 

“And what if this were your son, Lady Catelyn? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do everything to keep him safe! I say this is not treason! If it is treason, then it is Robert Baratheon’s treason. He took the throne - well, then he should fucking act like a king! You have only ever shown him loyalty, good-brother, and he repays it with hostility - and now he wants my son! Tell him to go fuck himself - and if he still persists, then my father will bring all the might of Dorne upon him.”

 

“Yes, Dorne and the North,” said Ned slowly, “Dorne and the North against who? Do you think Robert will let us secede? After what happened with the Ironborn? The Westerlands, the Vale, the Crownlands, the Stormlands and the Reach will follow him. The Riverlands will remain neutral, at best.”

 

“Ned...”

 

“No, Cat. We might be family, but your father has to think of his own people too. The Riverlands cannot be defended as easily as the North or Dorne can be, and they would be attacked from all sides if they sided with us in such a scenario. The best we can hope for is neutrality and even that might be too good to hope for. With the Redwyne Fleet and the Royal Fleet, Robert can circumvent Moat Cailin, landing his troops wherever he wants to. Our own fledging fleet is gone, our coastal defenses almost non-existent. Winter is barely over and we have not yet been able to refill our granaries. The Wildling attacks are intensifying. No, Obara, even with Dorne’s help, the North cannot go to war right now.”

 

“So you will send Lyan to be fostered.” Benjen’s voice was bleak.

 

“Yes. Forgive me, Ben.”

 

“I understand your reasoning. It’s just...”

 

“I know.” Ned paused. “He will not go alone. We will send capable men and women with him to protect him. I trust Jon Arryn to keep his word and to look after Lyan.”

 

From the shadows, the crannogman spoke up.

 

“I know a few who will help young Lyan understand his greensight. Others, especially Southrons, often underestimate us crannogmen. They will keep him safe and not seem like a danger to the king.”

 

“And I will speak to my father,” Obara said through gritted teeth, still looking ready and willing to ride down to King’s Landing and run Robert Baratheon through, but apparently seeing reason, “he will make sure that his grandson has the best protection possible - and a way to get him out of King’s Landing, if it becomes necessary.”

 

Benjen patted her hand and Obara leaned into him.

 

Nobody mentioned Lyan’s dreams about the doom of the North, though Cat wondered whether they helped convince Ned of this course of action. Still, there was one last thing that was to be discussed, that Cat was burning to know.

 

“You said that Jon wasn’t your son, Ned,” she said after a while.

 

“He sure looks like you, good-brother.”

 

Ned opened his mouth, closed it again and, after a second, finally nodded. The harsh lines of his face relaxed and, to Cat’s surprise, he looked younger than she had ever seen him.

 

“No, he is not my son.”

 

“Then...Brandon...”

 

Ned grimaced, his lips twisting up into a strange smile.

 

“No, not Brandon. Lyanna.”

 

His sister. But who...the dots connected and she gasped, her eyes widening. Surely not.

 

“Not...not...”

 

“That bastard who disgraced Elia!” snarled Obara, almost pushing up from her seat but being held back by Benjen. “You mean to tell me that Jon - that he is Rhaegar’s son?!”

 

“Yes. Rhaegar’s trueborn son and for all intents and purposes the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

 

“He was married to my aunt!”

 

Ned snorted.

 

“As if that would have stopped a Targaryen. It wouldn’t be the first time that a Targaryen king had two wives. Rhaegar married Lyanna in front of a heart tree, taking her as his wife. The Kingsguard fought fiercely to protect Jon when I arrived. No, they wouldn’t have done so with just a bastard.”

 

“The fight was difficult,” Howland Reed agreed, “and we almost all got killed. Only the two of us survived that day. Yes, they fought for a higher goal that day.”

 

“How...how did it happen?” Cat asked, not knowing what to feel about this. For so long, Jon had been Ned’s bastard, the stain of dishonor that followed her everywhere. Now he was the trueborn heir to the throne, Ned’s nephew. It was both better and worse than before. Even harboring him here in Winterfell was treason of the highest order. It was a danger. But with all that she knew, she didn’t doubt the fate that awaited the boy if his parentage were known. She didn’t want Jon dead; had never wanted him dead. Gone, yes, but not dead.

 

“How does it normally happen?” Ned uttered bitterly. “Lyanna was a young girl with too much wolfblood. She didn’t want to be tamed and was deeply unhappy with the prospect of marrying Robert.”

 

“Wouldn’t we all be,” snorted Obara, perhaps a bit less hostile than before.

 

“Yes,” continued Ned, “Lyanna saw Robert for what he was. No doubt Rhaegar - gallant, handsome and kind - would have seemed a knight in shining armor to her, come to save her from her fate. Lyanna was never one for thinking things through, and so she went with him willingly.”

 

“And I let them go,” Benjen added.

 

Cat could see it in her mind. Yes, for a young girl a prince coming to rescue her would seem like something out of songs and legends. She herself would have been tempted had a prince come to steal her away before her marriage to Ned. It would have seemed a kinder fate at that time.

 

“I already told you, Ben, that she would have found a way regardless. I suspect that at first things must have seemed to be going well, but I hope that I knew my sister well enough to tell you that she would never have remained after our brother and father died - not willingly, at least. I questioned the mid-wife afterwards and she said that Lyanna wasn’t allowed to leave the tower. She had become a prisoner.” Ned sighed. “In any case, Lyanna got pregnant and birthed Jon. She died in my arms, making me promise to keep him safe. You cannot imagine the horror I felt when I arrived in King’s Landing and heard that Robert had ordered the death of children - dragonspawn, he called them. I knew, then, that he could not know about Jon - and so I told the world that Jon was my son.”

 

And so Ned had done the honorable thing in the end. For a moment, Cat almost asked why he hadn’t told her, but then she realized that the answer was obvious. If he could not trust his childhood friend, could he trust his new wife who was a stranger to him? It didn’t really matter, in the end. Jon was here, in Winterfell. He was not Ned’s bastard. He was Rhaegar’s heir. What was she to do now? The boy could not be sent away - Ned wouldn’t allow that, not after all he had done to keep the boy safe. Things in the South were deteriorating. Who could say if Lyan’s fostering would bring lasting peace to Westeros? The situation might still escalate. An idea began to take hold in Cat’s mind and the more she thought about it, the more she realized that this was the right course of action.

 

“Then you have to raise Jon to be a leader, a king,” she said.

 

“What? But...Cat...”

 

She raised her hand and he fell silent. The others were looking at her with interest, waiting.

 

“If things in the South turn bad, if the worst case happens and the North and Dorne have to fight against the rest of Westeros, we will need Jon as a pretender for the Iron Throne. There are enough Targaryen loyalists left that they will follow him. You are known for being honorable and Lord Reed can back up your claims. They will believe you.”

 

“And what if there is peace? Do you think Jon will be satisfied to be a bastard, when he was brought up to be king?”

 

“Then let him serve with the Dawnguard. I already heard that some were knighted following the Ironborn raid. He will gain a name that way and you can give him a holdfast somewhere. Tell him of his heritage only if we truly have to use his claim.”

 

Cat waited with bated breath while her husband deliberated. Benjen was staring at her as if he had never seen her before and even Obara, finally calm, looked at her with new respect. Lord Reed didn’t say anything, observing. Cat almost shivered.

 

Finally, Ned nodded.

 

“Then it is decided.”

 

As they continued to drink and eat and plan, Cat thought that this day went differently to what she had expected. Ned had lost a bastard, Cat had gained a nephew. A nephew who would be king. Ned might think that with Lyan’s fostering they would have peace, though he would prepare for any eventuality regardless, but Cat knew the viper’s nest of the South. The North was gaining too much strength to be left alone, no matter what.

 

War was on the horizon. Not now, not soon, but eventually.

 

She would make sure to keep her family safe, whatever the cost.

 

And for that, Jon would be king.

 


	30. Chapter 30

#  Jaime VI 

 

“Would you stop pacing?” The melodious voice cut through his anxiety, making him abruptly stop. He turned towards Dacey and found his stepdaughter giving him a look that was amused and exasperated in equal measure.

 

“I can’t understand how you can be so calm right now!” His voice rose almost into a screech. Jaime closed his mouth firmly and gritted his teeth. He sounded like some hysterical Southron female. What a disgrace! He was the Lion of the North, Lord of Lionsfort, who faced Wildlings, bandits and Ironborn without hesitation and here he was panicking like some hapless babe! A sharp cry of agony came from the next room and he flinched once more.

 

“As much as I love you, Jaime,” the young girl grinned, “and as good as you are to my mother, you must cast aside your preconceptions. It is not the first time that my mother gives birth and all her previous pregnancies were without problems. She is no wilting Southron flower but a Mormont bear. And now,” she continued, seeing him flinch again, “go and do something productive.” She raised her hand and waved him away. “I can’t concentrate with your constant fretting.”

 

“How you can read right now is beyond me.”

 

“Woman’s secret. And now go do something lordly. Mother would not like to have done all the work and find out that you’ve died of stress in the meanwhile.” With that, Dacey raised the book into the afternoon sunlight and began to read, clearly dismissing him. Jaime shook his head but followed his stepdaughter’s advice nevertheless, leaving the room and descending the staircase until, finally, he found himself outside a few minutes later. He took a deep breath of the crisp air and sighed. There would be no lordly work done today. He hadn’t been able to concentrate since Maege’s labour had started, unmanned and helpless in the face of something he could neither fight nor kill.

 

He was going to be a father. A _father_. He, Jaime Lannister, a father.

 

The thought pressed down upon him heavily, constricting his chest and making it harder to breathe. Jaime closed his eyes, forcing himself to steady his breathing. In, out, in, out. It took several minutes before he felt better.

 

With another intake of air he began to move, his feet aimlessly wandering through Lionsfort.

 

Perhaps it was the birth of his child, but his eyes looked at the familiar copper roofs gleaming in the sun and the grand mountains and saw something new. Jaime’s thoughts turned inwards towards contemplation, pondering things that might have been, would never be; things that were.

 

It was summer, but even in summer the North was cold. The air was refreshing instead of biting, but the weather did not let anybody forget that Winter would come eventually. There had been some summer snows already - a novel experience for a man born and raised in the Westerlands. People in Lionsfort’s streets wore fur-lined cloaks. Most of them were pale in the face - even those he recognized as Westerlanders - apart from the occasional merchant from the South or Essos. All of them, though, looked healthy, happy and bowed to him in respect, joyful anticipation in their eyes. The news that Maege was giving birth had swept over the town like wildfire. Prayers and kind words - even some small strange figurines of foreign Essosi gods that were said to bring good fortune - had followed him everywhere. These people - his people - were worrying and hoping and praying together with him. His joy was their joy; his sorrow their sorrow. It was a strange, heady feeling.

 

As Jaime sat down next to the small river flowing through Lionsfort and stared into its clear depths, he suddenly wondered if his father had garnered such looks when his mother had given birth. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine the cold, calculating, child-murdering Tywin Lannister getting such a reaction from the smallfolk. His father was respected, feared, yes - but loved? If he was, then by very few. Over the years following that fateful conversation in King’s Landing Jaime had wondered sometimes how things might have gone had he not said no to his father. Would he have worn a white cloak now? Would he have been heir to the Westerlands? Would he have been able to love Cersei in the ways he had wanted to?

 

For a moment, his heart beat faster as the image of his twin settled in his mind: golden, beautiful and perfect. But as quickly as it came it dissipated, like smoke dispersed after a gust of strong wind.

 

He smiled. What-ifs. They were dreams and visions; things that would never be. His gaze wandered over Lionsfort, its prosperous people, sturdy buildings and to the white lion flying high over its towers. Proud, unbroken, untainted. Would his father disapprove? Maybe. Probably. Even the notion that Tywin Lannister might approve of his accomplishments made him shiver. In the end, he didn’t know - and perhaps it was better that way.

 

“My lord! My lord!”

 

Jaime looked up and saw Rondon hurrying towards him.

 

“It is time! You must come!”

 

He was up and running before his thoughts caught up with him.

 

This time Dacey didn’t even bother trying to calm him. The air was full of anticipation as the cries got louder and louder before falling silent. Then, high-pitched screams filled the air. Jaime’s heart almost stopped, his eyes widening in wonder as he realized that he was hearing the first sounds of his child. Maester Aron came out some minutes later, smiling.

 

“Twins, my lord.”

 

Twins? Jaime felt himself go pale, his knees growing weak. He would have fallen if Dacey had not steadied him. Twins...no, no, no...visions of himself and Cersei appeared in his mind...surely history wasn’t repeating itself.

 

“Twins...”

 

“Two daughters, my lord.”

 

Daughters...

 

Both Dacey and he were ushered through the door.

 

“It’s a pity that Alysane couldn’t be here,” said Dacey next to him, but he didn’t answer her. His eyes were on Maege alone, who was smiling, beaming. It was as if she hadn’t spent grueling hours giving birth at all. The evidence of the birth had been cleared away and only the two bundles in each of her arms gave evidence that it had happened. She motioned him forward and he obediently complied, sitting down on the bed next to her.

 

“Your daughters, my lord.”

 

Jaime took them with trembling arms, staring silently down at them. They were so tiny, weighing almost nothing...

 

“...like two chickens,” he mumbled, then blinked at the sharp pain in his arm.

 

“Don’t go calling my sisters chickens!” Dacey was scowling at him, fist raised, while Maege snorted in amusement.

 

“My apologies.”

 

“Indeed,” his wife said drily, eyes sparkling, “if they are any animal at all, then they are bears. Or lions.”

 

“Bearlions!” grinned Dacey.

 

Bearlions. The numbness that had settled over him since entering the room suddenly lifted and Jaime felt a fierce, all-encompassing love - for his daughters, for Maege, for Dacey. He leaned over quickly, capturing Maege’s lips in an ardent kiss, stopping reluctantly when she pushed him back after a few moments.

 

He licked his lips, savoring the taste, before opening his eyes.

 

“What are their names?” he asked softly.

 

Maege grinned.

 

“Well,” her hand reached out, settling over his knee and squeezing, “I thought that we could call this one,” she motioned to the babe with the tuft of golden hair, “Joanna.”

 

“Joanna.” For his mother. Would she have approved of this? Jaime hoped so. “Joanna.” He smiled and nodded, before turning to the other babe. She looked like Maege. That, he could already see.

 

“Rowyn,” he suggested, feeling that it was the right name as soon as he had said it. Maege nodded.

 

“Joanna and Rowyn.”

 

“Can I hold them? Please?”

 

As he passed Joanna to Dacey, his arms pressing little Rowyn to his chest and feeling her breath, he began to grin.

 

He had begun this journey full of doubts, abandoning all he had known, but now, here, he was finally certain.

 

It didn’t matter what his father thought. It didn’t matter what he had lost by coming to the North. He had found something much more precious: fellowship, friendship, respect, family...love.

 

He had made the right decision and he would protect all he had gained. He was now and would forever be Jaime Lannister, Lord of Lionsfort, husband to Maege Mormont, father to Joanna and Rowyn, the White Lion.

 

The Lion of the North.


End file.
